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BY  THE 


Author  of'A  Fool's  ERRA^ 


> 


STEPHEN  B.  WEEKS 

CLASS  OF  1886;  PRD.  THE  JOHNS  HOPKINS  UNIVERSITY 

OF  TME 

UNIVERSmY  OF  Komi  CAMDONA 
TIE  WEEKS  (COLLECTIKON 

OF 

(CAIOLIIMANA 


e    "'  '  3  • 


■'^d 


/ 


This  book  must  not 
be  token  from  the 
Library  building. 


Form  No.  471 


/ 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 


A^nericair  ITistovical  Novels, 


A  FOOL'S  ERRAND. 

By  One  of  the  Fools.    361  pages,  Cloth,  $1.00 

"  It  is  nothing  less  than  an  extraordinary  work.  In  matter  it  Is 
Intensely  interesting ;  in  manner,  it  is  forcible  and  vivid  to  a  rare 
degree."— International  Review. 

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"  The  delicacy  and  keenness  of  its  satire  are  equal  to  anything 
within  the  range  of  my  knowledge."— P/-es.  Anderson,  Rochester 
University. 

"  The  characters  ai*e  real  creations  of  romance,  who  will  live 
alongside  of  Mrs.  Stowe's  or  Walter  Scott's  till  the  times  that  gave 
them  birth  have  been  forgotten."— Advance,  Chicago. 

"  Scarcely  anything  in  fiction  so  powerful  hag  been  written, 
from  a  merely  literary  standpoint,  as  these  books.  '  Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin '  cannot  compare  with  them  in  this  respect." — Uprinyfieid 
(Mass.)  Republican. 


FIGS    AND    THISTLES. 

538  pages,  with  Garfield  Frontispiece,  Cloth,  $1.50 

"  Crowded  with  incident,  populous  with  strong  characters,  rich 
in  humor,  and  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  alive  with  interest." 
—Boston  Commonicealth. 

"  It  is,  we  think,  evident  that  the  hero  of  the  book  is  James  A. 
Garfield."— jlfc/iison  (Kan.)  Champion. 

"  A  capi*il  American  story.  Its  characters  are  not  from  foreign 
courts  or  the  pestilential  dens  of  foreign  cities.  They  are  fresh 
from  the  real  life  of  the  forest  and  prairie  of  the  West."— C/itcagro 
Inter-Ocean. 


John  Eax 


AND 


Mamelon 


OR 


THE    SOUTH   WITHOUT    THE    SHADOW 


By   ALBION    W.    TOURGEE,  LL.D. 

Late  Judge  Superior  Court,  North   Carolina.     Author  of 

"A  Fool's  Errand,"   "  Bricks  without  Straw," 

"Figs  and  Thistles,"   etc. 


NEW    YORK 
FORDS,   HOWARD,   &   HULBERT 


Copyright,  1882, 

BY 

ALBION  W.  TOURGEE. 


TO 

THAT   IS   TO   BE 


X 


WHEN    THE    FIRE    OF    SELF-SACRIFICE     SHALL    HAVE    BURNED    AWAY 
THE    DROSS    OF   THE    PAST   AND   LEFT   ONLY   ITS 

THIS   BOOK    IS   EARNESTLY   AND    HOPEFULLY    DEDICATED   BY  THE 


Sx-tott  %HS, 


CONTENTS. 


JOHN  EAX. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Under  Duress, ,  9 

11.  A  Proud  Family, 20 

III.  "The  Cedars," 29 

IV,  The  Freshet, 39 

V.  A  Betrothal, 54 

VI.  Mother  and  Son, 60 

VII.   Movement, 76 

VIII.   Lover,  or  Friend?      .         .*      ,        .        .        .  86 

IX.  Brought  to  a  Focus, 95 

X.  A  Troubled  Night, 109 

XI.  Escape, 117 

XII.  Solution, 126 

MA  MELON, 

I.  Birds  of  Paradise, 147 

II.  Paul  and  I, 152 

III.  "A  Word  in  Season — how  good  it  is!"     .  161 

IV.  Pre-Adamite, 1 71 

V.   "The  Minstrel  Boy  to  the  Wars  has  gone,"  181 

VI.   "  Poortith's  Portion  Cauld,"       .         .         .  190 


IV  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

VII.  Northern  Lights,    .        .        ,        .        ,        .  205 

VIII.  The  White  Woods, 216 

IX.  Wizardry, 227 

X.  The  Deluge, 235 

XI.  An  Olive  Branch, 239 

XII.  NoTA  Bene, 244 

XIII.  "As  Christ  Loved  Us,"          ....  248 

XIV.  Science  and  Art, 258 

XV.  The  Keystone, 264 

XVI.  This  Indenture  Witnesseth,     ,        .        .  268 

XVII.  Mound-Builders  to  the  Rescue,  .        .        .  272 

XVIII.   "Where  is  the  Way  where  Light  dwell- 

eth?" 281 

XIX.  The  Place  of  Sapphires,        ....  287 


PREFACE. 


^  I  ^HE  two  stones  that  compose  this  volume 
-*-  are  printed  in  this  form  because  I  love 
them.  Almost  a  decade  has  passed  since  they 
were  written.  I  feel  old  while  I  read  the  proofs, 
as  if  looking  upon  a  swift-grown  child.  I  have 
not  changed  them  — I  could  not.  To  me  they  are 
parts  of  a  great  panorama  which  I  tried  to  paint 
with  the  whole  vast  scene  outspread  before  me. 
To  change  a  part  would  mar  the  harmony  of  the 
whole. 

I  was  first  impelled  to  attempt  the  field  of 
romantic  fiction  by  the  weird  fascinations  of 
Southern  life.  Thrown  while  yet  young  and  im- 
pressible into  the  very  vortex  of  the  Reconstruc- 
tion Era,  with  the  sound  of  the  bugle  yet  in  my 
ears,  the  breath  of  battle  hardly  blown  away 
from  the  field  of  strife,  with  the  shadow  of 
Slavery  passing  slowly  over  the  land  on  which  it 


VI  PREFACE. 

had  rested  so  long  and  so  heavily,  I  walked 
amid  the  strange  incongruous  elements  around 
me,  as  one  in  a  dream. 

The  shadow  was  over  all — the  shadow  of 
Slavery  and  of  its  children,  Ignorance  and  War 
and  Poverty.  In  the  shadow  I  wrote,  contrast- 
ing it  with  the  light.  It  came  to  me  then,  almost 
as  a  revelation,  that  the  North  and  the  South 
were  two  families  in  one  house — two  peoples 
under  one  government ;  each  believing  that  it 
thoroughly  understood  the  other,  and — resting  in 
that  belief — becoming  hourly  more  and  more 
estranged. 

So  I  wrote,  until  the  pages  grew  into  volumes, 
and  the  thoughts  which  were  once  my  own — 
the  impalpable  companions  of  my  day-life  and 
dream-life  —  entered  into  other  hearts,  and  be- 
came the  common  property  of  mankind.  I  meet 
them  here  and  there,  and  recognize  them  in 
strange  new  garbs.  They  masquerade  before  me 
in  others'  lives  and  words,  and  I  sometimes  smile 
at  the  antics  of  the  winged  truants  whom  I  would 
not  recall  even  if  I  could.  I  do  not  judge  them, 
I  cannot.  I  believe  they  have  made  some  lives 
better  and  none  worse,  and  with  that  I  am  con- 
tent. 


PREFACE.  Vll 

But  there  were  rifts  in  the  shadow,  some  of 
which  I  tried  to  paint.  These  stories  are  two  of 
them. 

Perhaps  I  love  the  Httle  waifs  all  the  more  be- 
cause of  the  circumstances  under  which  they  were 
written.  On  one  occasion  I  had  listened  until 
well  past  midnight  to  the  tales  of  an  inexhausti- 
ble raconteur  who  dwelt  with  a  peculiar  delight 
on  the  traits  and  deeds  of  a  strongly  marked  old 
family,  whose  seats  of  power  had  been  in  sight 
of  the  county  tow^n  where  we  were.  The  next 
day  these  strange  tales  seemed  echoing  in  my 
ears  amid  the  routine  business  of  a  country  court. 
Among  the  parties  who  were  that  day  before 
the  court  was  one  whose  quaint  name  somehow 
became  entangled  in  my  mind  with  these  tradi- 
tions. When  I  went  to  my  room  in  the  country 
inn  that  night,  I  found  a  page  of  my  "  Judge's 
Minute  Book"  closely  covered  with  the  cabalistic 
words  '^  John  Eax."  I  hardly  know  how  it  came 
about,  but  the  queerly-named  suitor  and  the  proud 
old  family  seemed  to  affiliate  wonderfully  well  in 
spite  of  their  diversities  of  antecedent ;  '*  John  Eax'' 
and  the  ^^  De  Jetuiettcs'  kept  company  with  me  all 
the  night,  and  as  the  morning  broke  I  filled  the 
last  page  of  my  "  docket"  with  the  closing  words 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

of  the  story.  It  was  a  queer  "  record  '*  to  be 
"  made  up"  there,  and  I  could  but  laugh  at  the 
odd  admixture  of  fact  and  fiction  in  the  conse- 
crated domain  of  law ;  but  as  I  drew  aside  the 
white  muslin  curtain  and  saw  the  autumn  morn- 
ing creep  up  the  flame-lit  slopes  of  ''Beaumont^' 
I  felt  that  I  had  been  a  not  ungrateful  listener  to 
the  genial  tale-teller  of  the  old  regime. 

One  day  in  the  spring  of  1874,  while  holding 
term  in  a  neighboring  county,  there  happened  to 
be  no  business  ready  to  be  taken.  Adjourning 
till  the  next  day,  I  wandered  off  to  an  old  church- 
yard, neglected  and  forlorn,  with  the  red  tongues 
of  numerous  gullies  bearing  fiery  testimony  of  the 
unthrift  around,  but  having  in  one  corner  a  cedar- 
sheltered  nook  where  an  old  flat  tablet  showed 
above  a  luxurious  bed  of  clambering  blue-eyed 
periwinkle.  I  picked  the  moss  dreamily  out  of 
the  old-time  lettering,  deciphered  the  quaint  in- 
scription, and  transcribed  it  in  my  pocket-diary, 
sitting  there  among  the  periwinkle  and  using  the 
gray  old  tablet  for  a  desk.  The  sun  shone 
brightly;  the  mocking-bird  swung  on  the  top- 
most branch  of  the  cedar  and  sang.  There  I 
wrote  the  first  chapters  of  "  Mainelon'  in  my  note- 
book. 


V 

PRE  FA  CE.  ix 

The  two  stories  give  glimpses  of  the  Recon- 
struction Era  at  the  South,  without  the  shadow 
that  hung  over  the  land.  If  the  North  and  South 
are  contrasted,  it  is  but  to  show  the  fusing  poten- 
cy of  love  or  the  solvent  power  of  manly  friend- 
ship. 

Should  others  take  half  the  pleasure  in  reading 
that  I  have  enjoyed  in  preparing  this  little  vol- 
ume, I  shall  be  amply  repaid. 

Albion  W.  Tourgee. 

New  York,  Oct.  7th,  1881. 


JOHN   EAX. 


•Jf 


CHAPTER   I. 


UNDER     DURESS. 


JOHN  EAX."  It  was  an  odd  name,  but 
somehow  it  looked  strangely  familiar,  and  as 
I  sat  with  the  book  open  before  me  I  read  it 
over  listlessly  time  after  time  with  a  dim  strug- 
gling sense  of  recognition. 

Almost  unconsciously  I  traced,  as  well  as  my 
numbed  brain  would  allow,  the  events  of  my  life, 
striving  to  recall  in  what  connection  I  had  heard 
or  seen  the  name,  JoJin  Eax,  My  memory  for 
names  had  always  been  bad.  I  could  never  cite 
cases  by  name  and  page  from  memory  like  other 
practitioners  of  the  law.  But  my  power  of 
association  was   unusually  good.     Given  a  name, 

*  Pronounced  with  the  sound  of  long  e, Eex. 


10  JOHN  EAX. 

place,  or  idea,  I  could  almost  invariably  bring  up 
the  correlative  or  associated  impression.  So, 
while  I  could  not  remember  names,  if  a  name 
was  once  associated  in  my  mind  with  a  face,  the 
one  would  usually  recall  the  other.  If  I  saw  the 
countenance,  I  could  generally  remember  the 
name,  or  if  I  saw  the  name  it  would  bring  up  the 
countenance. 

I  soon  became  satisfied  that  I  had  never  met 
John  Eax  in  person,  as  I  had  no  recollection  of 
his  individuality.  Yet  I  could  not  keep  my  mind 
from  running  on  it  idly  and  vainly  as  the  long 
hours  of  the  summer  afternoon  crept  away,  and 
the  evening  sun  threw  his  scorching  rays  through 
the  one  uncurtained  window  of  the  room  in  which 
I  sat.  The  window  was  high  up  from  the  floor, 
and  as  the  sunlight  fell  upon  the  rough  pine  table 
before  me  it  was  broken  into  many  small  squares, 
separated  by  broad  frames  of  shadow.  It  was 
the  first  time  I  had  ever  noticed  such  a  shadow, 
and  I  remember  thinking  it  odd  that  I  had  never 
thought  of  the  phenomenon  before.  It  was  my 
first  day  in  Childsboro'  jail.  I  had  lived  in  sight 
of  it  all  my  Hfe.  I  had  visited  clients  many  a 
time  in  this  very  cell  which  I  then  occupied. 
Yet  never  once  had  the  thought  occurred  to  me 


/^ 


UL''-'' 


UNDER  DURESS.  II 

that  the  very  sunshine  was  made  to  wear  shackles, 
to  the  eyes  of  the  unfortunate  prisoners. 

I  was  alone — except  for  the  rats  and  vermin 
who  rioted  amid  the  filth  of  the  ill-kept  prison. 
In  those  days  humanity  was  little  studied  in  the 
construction  or  care  of  jails.  As  much  of  dis- 
comfort, deprivation,  and  suffering  as  could  well 
be  crowded  between  four  walls  was  considered,  in 
this  region  at  least,  an  indispensable  attribute  of 
a  perfect  prison.  The  constitution  of  the  State 
of  North  Carolina  forbade  '^  cruel  and  unusual 
punishment."  No  man  dared  lay  the  prisoner  on 
the  rack  or  pull  out  his  nails  with  hissing  pincers ; 
but  while  the  poor  wretch  waited  for  his  trial  in 
the  jail,  the  frost  might  loosen  his  joints  and 
cripple  his  members,  or  the  summer  sun  might 
heat  the  fetid  atmosphere  in  that  steaming  cal- 
dron of  a  cell  until  every  breath  was  to  the  pant- 
ing breast  like  the  fumes  of  hell  to  the  doomed 
soul.  No  extraneous  cause  of  suffering  could  be 
applied  to  the  prisoner  In  the  jail,  but  every 
essential  of  health  and  comfort  might  be  removed, 
and  it  was  the  general  notion  that  they  should 
be.  Punishment,  In  those  days,  was  Inseparably 
associated  with  suffering — physical  pfaln.  The 
gallows,  the  lash,  and  the  branding-Iron  were  its 


12  JOHN  EAX. 

implements,  and  it  was  considered  eminently 
proper  that  they  should  be  supplemented  by 
disease  and  exposure. 

What  right  had  the  prisoner  to  complain  ?  He 
should  not  have  been  weak  or  unfortunate  or 
guilty  if  he  did  not  wish  to  suffer.  Was  he  not 
the  scapegoat  upon  whom  society  had  laid  its 
hands  and  its  sins?  Of  course  it  was  a  Christian 
law  and  in  a  Christian  land. 

You  think  that  was  long  ago,  but  it  was  only 
yesterday.  There  was  never  any  provision  for 
warming  the  prisons  of  the  State,  except  the 
debtors'  rooms  of  the  jails,  until  since  the  war, 
and  there  are  not  a  few  now  who  believe  that  a 
great  backward  step  was  taken  when  even  this 
concession  was  made  to  the  humanitarianism  of 
the  age.  I  have  had  clients  who  were  frostbitten 
in  the  jail  we  see  yonder,  and  know  of  many  a 
poor  fellow  who  has  been  as  certainly  murdered 
by  consumption,  pneumonia,  or  other  diseases 
generated  by  exposure  and  filth  and  foul  air  and 
lack  of  exercise,  as  if  a  dagger  had  pierced  his 
heart. 

But  I  was  in  the  debtors'  room,  and  alone. 
Unusual  privileges  were  granted  me.  I  had  one 
splint-bottomed  chair  with  a  back  and  one  with- 


UNDER  DURESS.  1 3 

out,  a  pine  table  of  ordinary  dimensions,  lavishly 
carved  and  ornamented  by  the  generations  of 
unfortunates  who  had  been  the  tenants  of  the 
cell  before  me.  There  was  a  bed,  the  clothing  of 
which  had  been  white,  and  the  odor  of  which 
suggested  the  thought  of  contagion.  It  was 
deemed,  however,  a  very  luxurious  bed  for  one 
who  chanced  to  be  in  my  unfortunate  condition 
in  those  days  of  prosperous  ease.  Besides  these 
luxuries  there  was  a  water-bucket  and  a  drinking- 
gourd.  The  jailer  came  three  times  a  day  with 
my  meals,  and  did  not  fail  to  remark  that  mine 
was  a  very  comfortable  lot.  Indeed,  he  seemed 
to  regard  my  situation  with  something  akin  to 
envy.  To  'be  fed  without  labor,  to  sleep  with- 
out need  of  waking,  and  to  spend  the  day 
without  thought  for  to-morrow  was  evidently 
to  his  mind  the  tdtwia  tJiule  of  human  blessed- 
ness. 

Ever  since  he  had  brought  me  at  noon  the 
food  which  sat  untasted  on  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  I  had  been  saying  over  and  over  again  to 
myself: 

'''■  Eax — Eax — John  Eax  !  where  have  I  seen  or 
heard  or  known  that  name?"  I  could  not  recog- 
nize the  handwriting,  and  yet  each  letter  seemed 


14  ^  JOHN  EAX. 

to  have  been  burned  into  my  brain.  I  tried  to 
analyze  it,  to  see  if  its  characteristics  would  not 
aid  me  in  identifying  its  owner.  The  letters  were 
of  medium  size,  but  wonderfully  distinct  and 
firm.  It  was  written  before  the  days  of  gold  or 
steel  pens,  and  had  all  those  ear-marks  of  mood 
and  character  which  only  the  flexible  quill  could 
convey. 

I  had  been  somewhat  accustomed  to  the  study 
of  handwriting,  especially  as  an  index  of  charac- 
ter. Among  my  professional  acquaintances  I 
was  regarded  as  something  of  an  expert  in  chiro- 
graphic science,  and  had  not  unfrequently  made 
wonderfully  correct  deductions  from  a  bit  of  writ- 
ing shown  me  for  the  first  time,  as  to  the  writer's 
age,  occupation,  character,  and  habits.  It  was 
before  the  days  of  those  experts  who,  with  micro- 
scope and  camera  and  minimetric  gauge,  have 
sought  to  reduce  this  science  to  a  certitude.  I 
had  never  thought  of  applying  the  formulae  of 
the  higher  mathematics  to  the  chances  of  recur- 
rent forms.  I  trusted  only  to  the  subtleties  of  an 
eye  trained  to  observe  the  variant  characteristics 
of  chirography  and  the  deductions  of  a  brain 
that  had  always  been  fond  of  curious  speculation. 
Applying  this  skill  or  knowledge,  I  endeavored  to 


UNDER  DURESS.  1$ 

picture  to  myself  the  personality  of  the  man  who 
had  written  that  name — 

John  Eax. 

It  was  firm,  full,  confident ;  there  was  not  a  stroke 
too  many,  and  no  letter  was  neglected  from  taste 
or  carelessness.  It  had  little  of  what  is  termed 
^^  slope" — that  is,  its  letters  were  nearly  perpen- 
dicular with  the  line  of  direction  of  the  words. 
The  manner  in  which  the  letters  were  joined  to- 
gether or  run  into  each  other  showed  that  they 
were  made  with  what  is  now  known  among  pro- 
fessors of  the  chirographic  art  as  a  *'  partial  arm- 
movement." 

This  was  unusual  in  the  handwriting  of  the  old 
days  when  I  knew  this  must  have  been  written, 
but  I  had  noticed  that  a  certain  conformation  of 
the  hand  not  unfrequently  compelled  the  adop- 
tion of  this  method  of  letter-formation  even  in 
those  days  of  deliberate  penmanship.  I  started, 
then,  from  this  premise.  This  was  my  horizon, 
against  which  I  was  to  project  the  personality  of 
John  Eax,  viz. :  he  had  a  short,  thick  hand,  with 
full,  fatty  fingers. 

I  concluded,  further,  that  the  writer  was  not 
young,  as  there  was   no   sign   of  immaturity  or 


l6  JOHN  EAX. 

indecision  about  the  signature  or  any  letter  of  it. 
It  was  equally  certain  that  he  was  not  old,  as 
there  was  none  of  that  sharpness  of  angle,  heavi- 
ness in  the  downward  or  tremulousness  in  the 
upward  strokes,  one  or  the  other  of  which  indi- 
cations I  had  always  remarked  in  the  chirography 
of  old  age. 

John  Eax  was  therefore  in  the  prime  of  life, 
and  from  the  firmness  and  decision  of  his  hand 
more  likely  to  be  verging  upon  age  than  border- 
ing upon  youth.  The  title-page  of  the  volume, 
on  the  fly-leaf  of  which  the  name  was  written, 
bore  the  imprint  date  of  1745  —  one  hundred 
years  before  the  time  I  first  saw  it ;  and  the  writing 
did  not  seem  to  belong  to  a  much  later  period. 
Presuming  it  to  have  been  within  fifty  years  of 
that  date,  and  taking  the  character  of  the  hand- 
writing into  the  account,  I  was  satisfied  of  an- 
other and  most  important  fact  in  regard  to  the 
personality  of  this  sphinx  of  my  imagination — to 
wit:  John  Eax  was  not  a  professional  man.  The 
training  required  for  any  of  the  learned  profes- 
sions of  that  day  would  have  left  a  mark  on  the 
hand  of  any  man  which  would  have  been  unmis- 
takable and  ineradicable.  So  this  became  an- 
other item  in   the  verdict   I   was  making  up  in 


UNDER  DURESS.  \*J 

regard  to  this  mysterious  unknown : — not  liber- 
ally educated. 

At  the  same  time,  the  evident  ease,  certainty, 
and  smoothness  of  his  chirography  showed  that 
the  writer  was  not  only  accustomed  to  form  this 
signature,  but  that  his  hand  was  by  no  means 
unfamiliar  with  the  pen.  It  showed,  too,  a  flexi- 
bility of  finger  and  wrist  which  was  inconsistent 
with  the  actual,  daily  pursuit  of  any  manual  avo- 
cation. I  was  of  the  opinion,  also,  that  the  style 
of  the  writing — i.e.,  the  manner  of  forming  the 
letters  and  of  joining  them  so  as  to  make  words — 
was  the  result  not  so  much  of  any  system  which 
he  had  been  taught,  or  training  he  had  received, 
as  of  a  necessity  which  had  evoked  it  from  him- 
self. It  was  near  enough  to  the  conventional 
forms  not  to  be  usually  deemed  odd  or  strikingly 
peculiar,  and  yet  far  enough  removed  from  them 
to  be  original.  This,  with  the  simple  directness 
and  total  absence  of  anything  like  flourish  or 
extraneous  lines,  showed  a  man  of  independent 
mind  and  easy  circumstances. 

So  I  added  to  my  special  verdict  the  following 
items : 

I.  Not  engaged  in  any  manual  occupation  at 
the  time  this  signature  was  written.     2.  Accus- 


1 8  JOHN  EAX. 

tomed  to  write,  but  neither  a  clerk  nor  a  scholar. 
3.  In  easy  or  affluent  circumstances.  4.  Accus- 
tomed to  the  exercise  of  authority — perhaps  com- 
mand. 

As  a  whole,  then,  John  Eax  stood  forth  to  my 
mind  a  man  of  mature  age  and  rather  full  habit ; 
with  energies  unimpaired  by  age  or  indulgence ; 
accustomed  to  obedience  in  others,  and  having 
the  characteristic  spirit  of  the  well-to-do  English- 
man, in  that  he  cared  little  for  others'  opinions 
of  his  acts  so  long  as  they  were  not  in  themselves 
actually  discreditable.  But  when  I  had  thus  con- 
jured up  before  my  mind's  eye  the  gruff,  gray- 
whiskered  Englishman  of  a  century  before,  well- 
clad  and  well-fed,  vivid  as  the  picture  was  I  could 
not  recognize  it,  nor  could  I  go  any  further  in  my 
deductions.  I  had  learned  all  that  the  signature 
could  tell  me. 

As  I  looked  up  in  despair,  the  cross-barred 
sunshine  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  cell  awoke 
me  from  the  half-unconscious  stupor  in  which  I 
had  been  ever  since  my  incarceration,  and  in 
which  I  had  pursued  the  dreamy,  fruitless  inquiry 
which  I  have  detailed.  I  have  often  thought 
that  it  was  a  blessed  thing,  apart  from  other  re- 
sults, that   my  mind   ran   off    into   this   hopeless 


UNDER  DURESS.  1 9 

labyrinth  which  led  nowhere  except  away  from 
the  agony  and  misery  which  surrounded  my  life. 
If  something  had  not  reHeved  the  tension  of 
those  terrible  moments  I  must  certainly  have 
died  of  sheer  agony  of  soul. 

The  shadow  of  the  cell  window  cast  on  the 
blank  wall  waked  me  from  my  dream.  Its  red 
flickering  light  and  the  black  bars  of  shade  re- 
minded me  of  an  old  picture  I  had  once  seen,  in 
which  the  condemned  are  represented  as  held 
down  by  adamantine  bars — crossed  and  riveted 
like  these — at  which  they  gnashed  and  strained 
incessantly,  while  the  flames  of  eternal  torment 
swelled  and  seethed  unceasingly  beneath  and 
about  them.  It  was  the  very  perfection  of  the 
old,  medieval,  monkish  idea  of  hell.  I  remem- 
bered shuddering  with  horror  when  I  looked  on 
the  original.  Now  I  laughed  at  the  painter's  con- 
ception as  puerile  and  weak.  My  own  agony  was 
so  much  fiercer  and  keener  than  that  typified  by 
this  flesh-scorching  hell,  that  I  could  mock  at  such 
mere  physical  ill.  I  would  even  have  changed 
places  with  one  whose  drawn,  pinched  face,  in- 
stinct with  the  smart  of  endless  burning,  I  remem- 
bered then  was  pressed  wildly  to  an  opening  of 
the  grating  which  he  clutched. 


CHAPTER   II. 

A    PROUD     FAMILY. 

A  /["  Y  family  was  one  of  the  richest  and  proud- 
-^^ ^  est  in  the  State.  It  had  been  clustered 
about  Childsboro  ever  since  the  old  colonial  days. 
The  sons  and  daughters  of  each  generation,  being 
usually  few  in  number,  had  intermarried  with  the 
wealthiest  of  our  neighbors,  and  settled  about  the 
old  home-seat  until  there  was  scarce  an  influential 
family  in  the  country  which  was  not  akin  to  us. 
Our  family  pride  was  of  that  self-sufficient  kind 
which  did  not  seek  alliance  with  any  more  influ- 
ential or  powerful  connection,  because  it  did  not 
admit  that  any  such  did,  or  could,  exist.  To  be 
a  De  Jeunette  was  enough.  There  could  be  noth- 
ing more.  The  tradition  of  Huguenot  extraction, 
sufficient  wealth,  and  an  absolute  power  to  bind 
or  loose,  kill  or  make  alive,  in  the  county  of  Erie, 
constituted  our  house  one  of  the  princely  families 
which  the  system  of  slavery  built  up  and  streng- 
thened. It  might  have  rivals,  but  would  admit 
no  superiors. 


A   PROUD  FAMILY.  21 

My  father  had  two  brothers,  and  one  sister  who 
had  married  a  Fourshee.  They  were  all  settled 
upon  the  four  eminences  which  stand  like  guar- 
dians at  each  cardinal  point  about  the  pretty, 
peaceful,  scattered  little  town  of  Childsboro',  which 
lies  embowered  between  them.  These  seats  were 
known  as  Highmont,  Belmont,  Graymont,  and 
Beaumont,  my  father's  home.  Each  was  in  sight 
of  all  the  others,  though  they  are  more  than  five 
miles  apart ;  and  on  any  pleasant  day,  by  hanging 
out  a  signal  flag  from  the  window  of  one  of  the 
old  mansions,  the  whole  brood  of  uncles,  aunts, 
and  cousins  could  be  gathered  there  for  dinner, 
or  any  other  entertainment,  in  little  more  than 
an  hour. 

It  was  a  beautiful  sight  when  they  would  all 
come  —  the  elders  in  their  carriages  with  their 
black  servants,  fat  and  sleek  with  the  easy  joUity 
of  their  race ;  and  the  children,  boys  and  girls,  the 
grown  ones  on  splendid  blooded  horses,  and  the 
younger  ones  on  the  tough  and  docile  "  Banker" 
ponies  of  the  low  country,  with  grooms  and  out- 
riders, all  laughing  and  shouting  and  racing  to  see 
who  should  first  arrive. 

We  were  a  strangely  united  family,  too.  Uncles 
and  aunts,  nieces  and  nephews  and  cousins — by 


22  .     JOHN  FAX. 

numberless  removes— we  were  all  De  Jeunettes. 
There  were  no  discords,  no  quarrels  or  heartaches, 
in  our  circle.  It  was  a  saying  in  the  country,  that 
if  you  touched  one  of  us  you  stirred  the  whole, 
like  a  swarm  of  bees.  The  individual  members  of 
the  family  were  not  much  given  to  outside  friend- 
ship, but  to  be  the  friend  of  one  was  to  secure  the 
devotion  of  all.  In  like  manner,  to  be  the  enemy 
of  one  was  to  have  the  hatred  of  the  whole. 

We  were  not  given  to  broils  or  difficulties,  but 
woe  betide  the  man  whom  the  De  Jeunettes  set- 
tled upon  to  hate.  Their  revenge  was  a  thing 
certain  to  be  counted  on,  and  I  fear  the  forms  of 
law  rarely  stood  in  the  way  of  its  accomplishment. 
Of  course  it  was  done  fairly,  as  the  saying  then 
was;  but  abroil  is  easily  provoked,  and  the  De 
Jeunettes  were  cool-headed  and  strong-handed. 

Despite  our  somewhat  convivial  habits,  we  were 
little  given  to  excesses  of  any  kind.  Within  our 
own  family  it  was  one  great  feast  from  the  year's 
inning  to  the  ending.  It  was  rare  that  a  day 
passed  when  we  did  not  all  meet.  If  there  was 
sickness  in  one  family,  we  went  every  day  to 
show  our  sympathy;  and  as  soon  as  convalescence 
set  in,  our  family  gatherings  »vere  held  there  until 
the  invalid  was  able  to  go  out,  and  then  he  was 


A   PROUD  FAMILY.  23 

not  allowed  to  return  home  until  fully  restored. 
We  drank,  but  it  was  with  each  other;  gambled, 
but  it  was  with  our  cousins  ;  bet  upon  the  speed 
of  our  horses,  but  the  wagers  came  back  as  pres- 
ents. Brawling  and  carousing,  with  their  attend- 
ant ills,  were  the  chief  evils  of  the  day  and  coun- 
try, but  they  seldom  affected  a  De  Jeunette. 
There  ivas  a  tale,  whispered  from  one  to  another 
of  the  younglings,  of  one  of  the  connection  who 
had  so  far  forgotten  himself  as  to  herd  with  the 
low-down  trash  which  congregated  in  and  around 
Childsboro'.  But  the  De  Jeunettes  stuck  to  him 
as  if  the  old  noblesse  oblige  of  other  days  rang  in 
their  ears  continually.  They  did  not  quarrel  with 
him  because  he  gambled  and  fought — nor  even 
because  he  fell  drunk  and  lay  in  the  gutter,  w^hile 
his  horse  came  home  riderless,  and  the  ragged  ur- 
chins of  Childsboro'  laughed  and  threw  mud  at  the 
Lord  of  Beaumont,  as  my  grandfather  was  called. 
It  was  told,  too,  that  when  his  excesses  had  im- 
paired his  estate,  and  his  outlying  plantations 
were  mortgaged,  and  even  Beaumont  threatened 
with  execution,  the  De  Jeunettes  did  not  fail  him, 
but  came  promptly  to  his  aid,  assumed  his  debts, 
and  when  he  had  sown  his  wild  oats  and  prom- 
ised   reform,  burned  his  obhgations   and   left  his 


24  JOHN  EAX. 

inheritance  unincumbered.  He  was  a  De  Jeu- 
nette. 

Once  when  a  Judge  of  more  than  ordinary 
nerve  was  riding  the  circuit,  and  my  ancestor  for 
some  drunken  freak  was  committed  to  jail  for  a 
contempt  of  court,  there  was  a  sudden  mustering 
of  forces,  and  before  the  Judge  had  left  the 
bench,  the  jail  was  broken  open  and  the  prisoner 
set  at  liberty.  It  was  done  in  broad,  open  day, 
and  every  one  knew  the  culprits.  They  were  the 
De  Jeunettes.  The  Judge — himself  a  fearless 
man — ordered  the  arrest  of  the  whole  family,  at 
least  its  males  ;  but  the  Sheriff  reported  himself 
unable  to  execute  the  process  with  the  power  of 
the  county,  and  the  week  of  the  term  having 
expired,  the  Judge  reported  the  matter  to  the 
Governor,  and  went*  on  his  way  around  the 
circuit.  The  Governor,  being  largely  indebted  to 
the  favor  and  influence  of  the  family,  and  mind- 
ful of  the  future,  found  it  quite  convenient  to 
ignore  entirely  the  application  for  aid. 

It  was  told  too,  that  another  one  of  the  old 
stock  was  tried  for  murder.  I  did  not  learn  the 
particulars  till  long  afterwards.  I  only  knew  then 
that  the  family  stuck  to  him  faithfully,  that  by 
some  means  a  verdict  of  ''  not  guilty"  was  com- 


A   PROUD  FAMILY.  2$ 

passed,  and  the  honor  of  the  family  saved.  And 
it  was  whispered  among  the  boys  and  girls — for 
there  was  no  sex  in  the  cousinhood  of  the  De 
Jeunettes  :  the  girls  were  as  bold  of  heart  and  as 
firm  of  hand  as  their  brothers — it  was  told  among 
them,  that  there  was  some  sort  of  an  agreement 
entered  into  by  which  the  others  became  sureties 
for  his  confinement  as  a  dangerous  lunatic,  and 
that  the  square,  tower-like  building,  made  of 
brick,  with  odd,  narrow  windows,  which  stood  in 
the  gorge  where  Black  Creek  burst  through  the 
low  mountain  range  that  skirts  Beaumont  on 
the  north,  was  his  prison  for  many  a  year.  Not 
till  I  came  to  practice  at  the  bar  myself  did  I  know 
how  true  was  this  grim  tale. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  we  were  a  proud  old 
family,  nor  that  we  enjoyed  to  the  utmost  our 
wealth  and  distinction.  Our  very  faults  were 
such  as  tended  to  unite  us  closer  and  intensify 
our  pride.  It  was  a  wonder  that  any  one  coming 
of  such  a  stock,  and  with  all  these  traditions  of 
faithfulness  and  exclusion  whispered  into  his  ear 
from  infancy,  should  ever  so  far  forget  them  as  to 
dream  of  mating  with  any  of  the  common  herd. 

It  was  bad  enough  for  a  De  Jeunette  to  think 
of  marriage  with  a  family  not  previously  akin  to 


26  JOHN  EAX. 

his  own.  There  were  the  Hauxtons,  the  Four- 
shees,  and  the  Dargans  (corrupted  from  D'Ar- 
gent),  and  other  famihes  that  were  alHed  to  us 
already,  and  which  were  held  to  furnish  a  suffi- 
cient field  for  selection  by  the  young  De  Jeunettes 
of  either  sex.  We  were  not  given  to  the  process  of 
intermarriage  between  close  relatives,  by  which 
the  strength  and  vigor  of  the  original  stock  might 
be  impaired,  as  the  stalwart  frames  and  inflexible 
wills  of  our  family  fully  attested  ;  but  it  was  a 
sort  of  dogma  among  us  that  by  intermarriage 
with  a  few  strong,  select  races,  continued  with 
discretion  and  care,  both  fortunes  and  families 
might  be  improved.  By  this  means  it  was 
thought  that  the  peculiar  excellences  of  the  old 
stock  might  be  preserved,  without  any  abatement 
of  their  vigor  or  decay  of  their  traits.  This  was 
not  openly  announced  as  a  canon  of  conduct  in 
the  family,  but  was  an  idea  which  came  to  be 
acted  upon  as  rigidly  as  if  the  law  of  the  land  had 
prescribed  it.  No  De  Jeunette  looked  forward  to 
marriage  except  among  the  more  or  less  remote 
cousinage  of  the  family — and  this  was  true  of 
girls  as  well  as  boys.  Every  belle  of  our  especial 
circle  introduced  into  it  a  remoter  cousin,  and 
every  young  man  appropriated  to  himself  a  mate 


A   PROUD  FAMILY.  2*J 

from  some  outlying  group  of  relatives.  Thus  we 
became  a  system  of  families  of  which  the  De  Jeu- 
nettes  were  the  centre,  held  together  by  a  con- 
stantly increasing  centripetal  force. 

Occasionally  there  would  arise  a  more  than 
usually  self-willed  scion  of  the  old  stock,  who 
would  persist  in  breaking  over  this  rule  and  going 
outside  of  the  charmed  circle  for  a  bride  ;  but 
this — though  always  strenuously  opposed — was 
never  a  mesalliance.  They  had  always  married 
into  the  highest  families  in  this  or  the  neigh 
boring  States.  It  was  disapproved  because  it 
was  not  considered  advisable  to  increase  the 
connection ;  the  De  Jeunette  idea  being  that 
a  small  connection  well  compacted  was  better 
than  a  large  one  loosely  held  together.  So  there 
had  been,  up  to  my  time,  no  instance  of  one  who 
had  absolutely  made  a  mesalliance.  I  was  fated 
to  break  that  rule. 

It  is  not  possible  for  one  at  this  day  to  under- 
stand the  enormity  of  my  offence.  There  was  a 
threefold  aristocracy  at  that  time — an  aristocracy 
of  blood,  of  wealth,  and  of  slaves.  The  mere 
slaveholder  was  the  lowest  grade  of  aristocrat ; 
the  wealthy  slaveholder  was  the  next  higher  ;  and 
he  who   could  point  to  a  long  or  peculiarly  dis- 


28  JOHN  EAX. 

tinguished  ancestry  as  well  as  a  slave-roll  of 
especial  length,  was  the  last  and  highest  grade  of 
ante-bellum  Southern  aristocracy.  Of  this  class 
the  De  Jeunettes  were  la  crenie  de  la  crhne.  The 
very  lowest  of  these  classes  was  infinitely  above 
the  highest  of  the  rabble  below.  It  is  true  there 
were  differences  even  there — small  planters  and 
tradesmen  and  mechanics  honorable  enough,  but 
low ;  and  overseers  and  *'  croppers ;"  and,  last  of 
all,  the  poor  white  trash,  who  well  deserved  their 
name. 

All  these  latter  distinctions  were  utterly  im- 
material to  a  De  Jeunette  as  regarded  marriage. 
It  would  have  been  unendurable  to  think  that 
one  of  them  should  marry  even  the  heir  of  a  few 
slaves — into  the  class  of  the  mere  slave-owner. 
Below  that,  it  was  but  a  choice  of  tainted  fish  to 
the  De  Jeunette  nostril. 

In  this  undertow  of  nothingness  I  found  a  bride. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"THE     CEDARS." 

T  CANNOT  tell  how  it  came  about.  I  was 
-^  twenty-four  years  old ;  had  graduated  with 
distinction  at  the  university,  and,  somewhat 
against  the  wish  of  my  parents  (or  rather,  I  should 
say,  of  my  family,  for  they  had  no  will  except 
what  was  merged  in  the  collective  volition  of  the 
De  Jeunettes),  had  prepared  for  and  been  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar.  They  had  yielded  to  me  in 
this,  though  no  De  Jeunette  had  ever  before  con- 
descended, so  far  as  was  known,  to  learn  or  prac- 
tise any  trade  or  profession  since  one  of  our 
remote  ancestors,  landing  at  Charleston  in  the 
ante-revolutionary  days,  had  modestly  written  his 
name  upon  the  registry  of  the  port,  "  Louis  De 
Jeunette,  cordoiiannier^'  in  the  quaint  old  French 
of  his  native  province.  I  am  not  sure  but  they 
yielded  to  me  in  this  the  more  readily,  because  I 
had  seen  that  registry  with  my  own  eyes,  and  had 
come  back,  after  my  youthful  attempt  to  ascend 
the  family  tree,  and  in  a  solemn  conclave  of  all 


30  JOHN  FAX. 

the  De  Jeunettes  had  informed  them  of  the  start- 
hng  fact  that  our  primal  knight  was  armed  with 
an  awl ;  that  our  great  ancestor  was  a  John  Mar- 
tel,  of  the  Order  of  the  Lapstone  ;  in  short,  that 
we  were  a  race  of  shoemakers !  I  do  not  think 
they  would  ever  have  consented  that  I  should 
study  for  a  profession  but  for  my  knowledge  of 
this  dangerous  family  secret. 

I  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  ambitious.  It 
was  not  sufficient  for  me  to  be  simply  a  De  Jeu- 
nette.  I  Avanted  power :  not  merely  that  of 
wealth,  ownership — the  power  of  vast  estates  and 
ample  possessions.  I  wanted  some  of  that  which 
rules  and  governs  men.  I  did  not  care  for  slaves  : 
I  wanted  followers,  adherents,  partisans — a  client- 
elage  in  the  old  Roman  sense.  They  said  I  was 
an  innovation  myself,  or  the  result  of  one,  because 
my  father,  after  almost  endless  negotiations  and 
beseechings,  had  obtained  leave  to  extend  the  De 
Jeunette  connection  by  marrying  Mary  Neal,  the 
splendidly  dowered  and  beautiful  daughter  of  one 
of  the  most  active  and  influential  families  in  the 
State.  Her  Irish  blood  seemed  to  have  set  the 
blue  Breton  drops  into  a  sudden  ferment  in  my 
veins.  They  acknowledged  me  to  be  a  De 
Jeunette    of    the    De    Jeunettes,  in    all   but    one 


*'THE    CEDAR sr  31 

thing : — I    could    not    follow   peacefully   the    old 
ruts. 

Yet  I  was  a  favorite  with  the  whole  host  of  kin- 
dred, and,  almost  from  my  earliest  remembrance, 
it  had  been  tacitly  understood  and  accepted  that 
the  very  flower  of  our  whole  family — the  queen  of 
the  De  Jeunettes,  the  black-eyed,  heavy-browed, 
ruby-lipped  Louise  of  Belmont — was  to  be  my 
bride  when,  in  the  fullness  of  time,  we  should  see 
fit  to  enter  Into  matrimonial  bonds. 

We  had  never  spoken  to  each  other  of  love,  but 
in  our  childish  games  we  had  played  at  man  and 
wife  ;  as  we  grew  older  we  had  been  more  inti- 
mate than  any  of  the  other  cousins,  and  something 
of  that  idea  of  ownership  and  self-appropriation 
which  accompanies  marriage  had  grown  up  be- 
tween us.  I  was  her  almost  invariable  attendant 
in  all  our  excursions,  and  she  fashioned  her  life  to 
meet  my  engagements  and  wishes.  I  knew  that 
she  loved  me.  Her  great  dark  eyes  lost  their 
haughtiness  and  became  soft  and  tender  when 
they  looked  into  mine.  I  did  not  doubt  but  that 
I  loved  her  in  return.  Indeed  I  had  determined 
after  due  meditation  that  I  would  make  a  formal 
declaration,  and  consummate  the  expected  union 
when  I  should   have  won   a  sufficient  practice   at 


32  JOHN  EAX. 

the  bar  to  afford  a  support  for  bride  and  groom, 
aside  from  the  family  revenues.  Strangely  enough 
I  was  bound  to  live  on  the  fruits  of  my  own  labor. 
I  would  offer  myself  to  our  queen,  as  a  knight 
who  had  won  his  spurs  in  battle.  She  knew  my 
ambition  and  shared  it  fully,  and  her  voice  and 
influence — by  no  means  slight  in  the  family  cir- 
cle— had  been  one  agency  by  which  had  been 
smoothed  the  way  for  the  innovation  I  had  made, 
in  my  devoting  myself  to  a  profession. 

One  vacation  I  went  to  spend  a  few  weeks  in 
hunting  at  an  outlying  plantation  of  my  father's 
on  the  river.  While  there  I  saw  a  vision.  It  is 
needless  to  attempt  a  description  of  Alice  Bain. 
She  was  fairer  than  the  summer  sky  mirrored  in 
the  mountain  lake.  Slight  as  a  fairy,  with  a  wealth 
of  soft  brown  hair  that  caught  the  sunbeams  in  its 
coils  and  stole  their  golden  glinting  ;  with  tender, 
shrinking  eyes  of  changing  blue,  and  lips  that  in- 
vited the  tale  of  love  before  her  tongue  could 
have  syllabled  its  alphabet.  But  I  wrong  her  to 
attempt  description. 

I  learned  two  things  at  once,  which  gave  me 
almost  equal  pain.  I  did  not  love  my  cousin 
Louie,  and  did  love  Alice  Bain,  tJie  niece  of  my 
father  s  overseer  I 


"  THE   CEDARSr  33 

It  was  too  incredible  for  me  to  believe.  I  flew 
back  to  Childsboro'  without  speaking  of  my  new 
discovery  to  any  one,  unless  my  eyes  revealed  it 
to  the  object  of  my  sudden  passion. 

I  was  really  horrified  at  the  thought.  Even  the 
sweet  image  of  Alice  Bain  could  not  drive  from 
my  mind  the  fearful  concomitants  of  my  love.  I 
felt  as  guilty  as  a  murderer.  I  was  almost  the 
betrayer  of  Cousin  Lou ;  the  violater  of  the  most 
sacred  traditions  of  my  family.  Besides,  there  was 
their  sure  anger.  No  one  could  say  to  what  length 
it  might  go.  I  was  not  afraid,  but  I  knew  that  the 
hatred  of  all  the  De  Jeunettes  was  not  a  thing  to 
be  lightly  incurred.  At  times  I  even  thought  of 
buying  my  future  peace  by  killing  the  memory  of 
the  new  love  and  marrying  the  old  one.  So  a 
year  crept  on  and  I  knew  not  what  I  should  do. 
I  could  not  tell  my  own  mind.  To  drown  what 
had  come  to  be  a  real  trouble,  I  had  devoted  my- 
self to  my  profession,  had  gambled  not  a  little, 
and  had  drank  more  than  beseemed  a  De  Jeunette 
outside  his  own  house.  The  son  of  my  law  tutor, 
a  young  man  of  my  own  age,  drank  much  and 
played  heavily.  I  had  become  his  security  for 
several  debts  contracted,  as  I  believed,  at  the 
gambling  table ;  I  knew  their  amount  was  consid- 


34  JOHN  EAX. 

erable,  but  could  not  tell  how  much.  It  mattered 
little,  as  I  had  no  fear  but  he  would  redeem 
them. 

No  one  suspected  my  folly.  All  observed  my 
altered  demeanor,  but  attributed  it  to  other 
causes.  The  people  said  I  was  not  so  proud  as 
my  family,  and  wanted  to  be  popular.  The  De 
Jeunettes  said  my  profession  had  turned  my  head 
and  made  me  forget  my  kindred.  They  began 
to  rally  me  about  Cousin  Lou,  and  ask  when  I 
was  going  to  marry  and  settle  down  as  a  De  Jeu- 
nette  should.  I  put  them  off  as  best  I  could,  and 
grew  more  and  more  reserved — more  and  more 
estranged  from  my  family.  I  went  but  seldom  to 
any  of  the  home-sites  that  were  the  pride  of  our 
family.  Queen  Louie  began  to  droop.  I  could 
see  it.  Her  eyes  sought  mine  with  a  sad,  plead- 
ing expression  when  we  met.  I  knew  that  she 
was  repining  at  my  neglect.  I  despised  myself 
for  my  folly,  and  yet  persisted  in  it. 

I  went  to  the  river-place — "  The  Cedars,"  we 
called  it — several  times  during  that  year  for  a  day 
or  two,  once  or  twice  for  a  week.  Of  course,  I  saw 
Alice  Bain  at  such  times,  for  she  was  an  orphan, 
and  lived  with  her  uncle,  the  overseer.  Each 
sight  of  her  increased  my  enthralment.      No  one 


**THE   CEDARS."  35 

suspected  it,  because  I  was  a  De  Jeunette  and  she 
only  the  niece  of  an  overseer.  Her  manner  to  me 
was  that  of  the  most  simple,  modest,  and  engaging 
frankness. 

At  length  I  came  down  to  the  plantation  just 
as  the  spring  freshet  set  in.  The  next  morning 
the  river  was  too  high  to  cross,  and  I  was  impris- 
oned at  The  Cedars  until  the  waters  should  sub- 
side. For  two  days  it  rained  continuously,  and 
on  the  evening  of  the  third,  just  as  the  sun  was 
going  down,  the  clouds  broke  away,  revealing  in 
his  setting  glow  almost  as  wide  a  waste  of  waters 
as  greeted  the  eye  of  the  patriarch  when  he  looked 
forth  from  the  unsettled  ark.  The  overseer  had 
been  busy  on  the  bottoms,  saving  fences  and 
strengthening  dikes  and  water-gaps,  with  the  whole 
force  of  the  plantation.  He  came  in  to  his  supper 
late  that  night,  and  I  remarked  to  him  that  he 
could  rest  now,  as  the  rain  was  over. 

**  Yes,  Mr.  De  Jeunette,"  he  answered,  ''the 
rain  is  over,  but  the  water  keeps  running  and  the 
river  is  still  rising.  If  it  keeps  on  at  this  rate 
till  midnight,  I  calculate  it  will  come  up  to  the 
Great  Fresh  of  'Ninety-Five.  I  was  looking  at 
the  marks  my  father  cut  on  a  water-oak  at  the 
mouth  of  the  branch  above  the  ford  to  mark  that 


3^  JOHN  FAX. 

rise,  just  at  daylight-down,  and  it  was  getting 
within  a  few  feet  of  it  then." 

"Are  you  going  out  again  to-night,  uncle?" 
asked  his  niece. 

"Yes,  Allie,"  he  answered,  as  he  lighted  his 
pipe  and  put  on  his  hat.  "  While  the  up-country 
is  full  of  water  and  the  river  rising,  there  is  no 
knowing  what  mischief  it  may  not  do." 

The  full  moon  was  casting  her  peaceful  radi- 
ance over  the  watery  scene,  obscured  only  now 
and  then  by  light  fleecy  clouds  that  blew  across 
her  disk.  Alice  approached  the  window  and 
looked  out. 

^  What  a  splendid  night !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Did 
you  ever  see  a '  fresh  '  by  moonlight,  Mr.  Charles  ?" 
she  asked,  turning  to  me  excitedly. 

I  admitted  that  I  had  not. 

"  Oh,  it  is  grand  !"  said  she.  "  I  used  to  watch 
it  often  when  I  was  a  child,  and  sometimes  do  so 
now,  when  I  can  get  uncle  to  go  with  me.  Won't 
you  go  to-night?"  she  asked  coaxingly,  as  she 
went  up  to  the  old  man  and  clasped  her  hands 
caressingly  about  his  arm. 

"  No,  dear,  I  can't.  The  hands  is  nigh  worn 
out,  and  if  there's  nobody  to  look  after  them,  a 
heap  of  truck  may  be  lost  that  might  be  saved 


*'THE   CEDARS."  37 

with  a  little  care.  But  as  you  say,  it  will  be  a 
sight  worth  seein'  with  such  a  moon  lightin'  up 
the  roarin'  flood,  that  rushes  on  as  if  it  was  alive 
an'  strivin*  to  win  a  race,  risin'  like  a  ridge  in  the 
centre  and  drawing  everything  that  it  clutches 
along  the  banks  to  the  middle.  Did  you  ever 
know  that,  Mr.  Charles  ?  It's  a  hungry,  ravenous 
thing,  is  a  river  on  a  rise.  Trees  and  rails  and 
fodder-stacks  and  bridges,  whatever  it  gets  hold 
on,  it  rushes  to  the  middle,  and  puts  a  guard  of 
mad,  sullen,  treacherous,  still  water,  full  of  back- 
sets and  eddies,  atween  it  and  the  shore.  It's  a 
hard  thing  to  tussle  with,  is  a  mad  river.  It  don't 
let  up  and  come  again,  like  the  sea,  but  keeps  its 
hold,  and  sucks  and  grips  every  minute,  gatherin' 
sometimes  into  a  whirl  and  then  rushin'  on  as  if 
dead  certain  of  its  prey,  and  mockin'  at  his  despair. 
A  cruel,  treacherous  thing,  Mr.  De  Jeunette,  is  a 
big  fresh !" 

''  Well  done,  uncle !"  cried  Alice,  clapping  her 
hands  and  laughing  at  the  enthusiasm  of  the  old 
man's  description. 

*'  There,  there,  gal.  Don't  laugh  at  me.  I 
know  I  cannot  do  it  justice,  but  I'll  tell  ye,  Mr. 
Charles,  if  I  was  a  painter — not  to  say  a  poet — I 
wouldn't  rest,  I  coiUdiit  rest,  till  I'd  put  such  a 


38  JOHN  EAX. 

fresh  as  this  on  paper,  or  canvas,  or  whatever  it  is 
they  use  for  such  things." 

I  could  see  his  eye  flash  and  his  thin  nostril  and 
lip  quiver  as  he  went  out.  There  was  good  blood 
in  the  hard-headed  old  Scotch-descended  over- 
seer, if  he  was  poor. 

He  stopped  for  a  moment  on  the  porch,  and 
then  came  back  and  opened  the  door  of  the  room 
where  we  were. 

"  O  Allie  !"  he  said.  ''  If  you  want  to  go  down 
to  the  Pint,  perhaps  Mr.  Charles  will  ride  with 
you  t 

He  looked  inquiringly  in  my  direction,  and  I 
assented  with  an  eagerness  which  I  feared  might 
be  observed,  but  the  freshet  itself  was  too  exciting 
for  any  excess  of  emotion  on  my  part  to  be  no- 
ticed. 

*'  Very  well,"  said  he,  "  I  will  order  the  horses 
to  be  brought  around.  You  must  be  right  careful 
of  her,  Mr.  Charles.  She's  a  mighty  venturesome 
little  thing.  She  knows  every  foot  of  the  ground, 
though,  and  there  can't  be  no  danger  unless  she 
rides  smack  into  the  river  itself.  There  ain't  nary 
cross-cut  nor  set-back  that  comes  nigh  the  path." 


CHAPTER   IV. 


THE    FRESHET. 


TT  was  a  glorious  night.  There  was  little  mud, 
-*-  as  the  rain  had  fallen  with  such  force  that 
the  road  was  packed,  and  only  the  surface  water 
splashed  about  us,  sparkling  in  the  moonlight,  as 
we  galloped  towards  the  Point  which  lay  a  mile 
or  more  below.  The  Cedars  was  a  wedge  of  land 
that  lay  between  two  rivers  of  almost  equal  vol- 
ume. The  Point  was  the  extremity  below  which 
they  met  and  formed  a  single  stream.  We  could 
hear  the  sullen  roar  of  each  sounding  across  the 
narrow  neck,  like  an  angry  challenge  to  the  other, 
as  we  rode  along. 

A  short  distance  from  the  house  the  road  left 
the  high  lands  and  went  down  upon  the  second 
bottoms,  an  alluvial  plateau  some  feet  above  the 
first  bottoms  which  w^ere  now  covered  by  the 
swollen  flood.  These  second  bottoms  had  un- 
doubtedly, in  some  former  age,  been  to  the 
streams  they  separated  what  the  first  bottoms,  or 
actual  low  grounds,  were  now,  and  had  been  sub- 


40  JOHN  EAX^ 

ject  to  overflow  for  a  long  period,  though  the 
river  had  never  been  over  them  since  the  settle- 
ment of  the  country. 

At  the  extreme  end  of  the  Point  the  confluent 
currents  had  deposited  the  sediment  and  drift 
with  which  they  were  charged  in  past  ages,  until 
there  had  been  built  up  a  gravelly  mound  con- 
siderably above  the  level  of  the  second  bottoms 
which  we  had  traversed. 

Arriving  at  this,  we  dismounted  and  I  picketed 
the  horses,  after  which  we  scrambled  over  the 
rough  surface  to  the  extreme  end  of  the  Point. 
It  was  indeed  a  strange,  wild  scene.  I  did  not 
wonder  that  it  had  taken  such  a  hold  upon  the 
old  overseer,  still  less  that  it  quite  enchanted  my 
impressible  companion. 

The  stream  upon  the  right  was  black  and  sullen, 
and  seemed  to  be  gliding  onward  with  a  silent, 
stealthy  purpose  of  revenge.  The  one  upon  the 
left,  less  in  volume,  was  a  more  boisterous  and 
impetuous  torrent.  It  was  of  yellowish  red  by 
day,  as  if  it  flowed  through  banks  of  ochre,  but 
in  the  moonlight  it  showed  a  soft  creamy  white. 
Below  the  Point  the  two  streams  met,  only  to 
pursue  each  its  way  side  by  side  with  the  other, 
but  unmingled,  unmerged  ;  so  that  below  us  ran 


THE  FRESHET.  4 1. 

a  river  with  its  right  bank  bathed  in  darkness  and 
its  left  a  gleaming  band  of  light. 

"  An  evident  misjoinder,"  I  said  lightly,  as  I 
came  to  the  extreme  verge  of  the  Point,  almost 
over  the  mad  whirlpool  which  their  junction  made, 
and  stood  beside  Alice  Bain  looking  out  on  the 
strange  scene,  'Mike  an  ill-assorted  marriage." 

"  And  no  wonder,"  she  answered  quickly, 
'■''  when  we  look  at  the  means  which  caused  their 
union."  She  pointed  to  a  low,  dark-looking  range 
of  hills  that  lay  to  the  left.  ''That,"  she  contin- 
ued, "  is  the  end  of  the  water-shed  between  the 
Saxipahaw  and  the  Neuse.  The  Indians  had  a 
tradition  about  these  streams,  as  I  have  heard, 
which  is  really  poetical.  They  say  that  long  ago, 
when  the  earth  was  young,  the  Saxipahaw  started 
in  the  hill  country  and  ran  a  long  way  to  the  east- 
ward, or  perhaps  north-eastward,  trying  to  mate 
with  the  Laughing  Water — the  Dan  ;  but  that 
ungallant  fellow  ran  away  from  her,  and  then  she 
came  sedately  along  through  the  Haw  fields,  half 
mourning  a  first  love,  but  soon  conceived  the  hope 
of  uniting  with  the  Neuse.  But  the  Manitou 
placed  the  Okoneechee  Hills  across  her  way,  and 
turned  her  course  sharp  to  the  south-eastward, 
along  a  rough  and    rugged    channel.     Then    she 


42  JOHN  EAX. 

came  on  here,  black  and  sullen,  only  to  become 
the  unwilling  bride  of  the  impetuous  river  which 
rushes  on  her  like  a  wild  beast  on  its  prey." 

We  stood  leaning  against  the  solitary  pine 
which  had  sprung  from  the  mound  of  debris,  and 
held  its  place  doubtfully  over  the  hissing,  hungry 
flood,  I  on  its  right  and  in  the  shadow,  she  on 
the  left,  bathed  in  moonlight — the  rugged  bole 
between. 

''You  are  of  Scotch  descent,  Miss  Alice?"  I 
said  inquiringly,  at  length. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  on  my  father's  side. 
My  mother  was  English,  I  have  heard  him  say. 
She  died  when  I  was  very  young" — 

"And  I  am  of  French  extraction — old  Hugue- 
not," I  said  musingly,  and  was  silent  again. 

"  What  could  put  any  such  speculation  in  your 
mind  at  this  time,  Mr.  De  Jeunette?"  she  asked 
at  length,  curiously. 

There  was  not  a  quaver  in  her  tone  to  denote  a 
suspicion  of  the  wild  passion  which  was  raging  in 
my  breast.  She  was  all  womanly  grace  and  can- 
dor. I  glanced  down  upon  her  as  she  stood  at 
my  left,  with  the  full  summer  moon  lighting  her 
slight  form  and  tingeing  her  many-hued  locks 
with  mellow  light,  while  I,  dark  and  swart  as  my 


THE   FRESHET.  43 

fiery  ancestors,  was  half  hidden  in  the  shadow  of 
the  pine. 

Love  was  triumphant.  I  could  hesitate  no 
longer,  so  I  answered  meaningly,  "  The  river." 

"The  river!  How  should  the  river  suggest 
such  inquir}^?"  she  asked. 

*'  Do  you  not  see,"  I  answered,  pointing  to  the 
united  waters  before  us,  '*  that  the  right  is  dark 
and  the  left  bright  " — 

"And  so,"  she  began — 

"  So,"  I  Interrupted,  "  with  Covenanter  and 
Huguenot — bright  Scotch  and  swart  Norman." 

She  was  so  innocent  she  only  thought  it  a  gal- 
lant jest  on  my  part,  and  answered  without  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation. 

"  But  you  said  yourself,"  she  laughed,  "  that  it 
was  an  Ill-assorted  union — a  most  evil  omen  to  be 
thus  applied." 

"Nay,  nay,"  I  rejoined,  "that  is  only  an  ap- 
pearance. You  know  that  when  the  two  rivers 
have  once  united  they  become  placid  and  peace- 
ful in  their  onward  course,  and  the  smilincf  cur- 
rent  which  sinks  into  the  ocean  is  so  bright  and 
lovely  that  it  was  named  by  Its  first  discoverers 
'The  Fair' — '  Cape  Fair,' which  later  generations 
have  corrupted  Into  '  Fear.'  " 


44  JOHN  EAX. 

"  But  that  was  only  the  result  of  a  philosophy 
which  made  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain.  The  riv- 
ers united  because  the  mountains  stood  across 
their  chosen  paths,"  she  answered  as  Hghtly  as 
before. 

"'  How  if  they  had  united  in  spite  of  mountains 
that  stood  between?"  I  asked  eagerly. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  De  Jeunette?"  she 
exclaimed,  with  a  start,  and  flashed  up  at  me  a 
look  of  surprised  inquiry. 

I  had  leaned  forward,  and  the  moon  shone  full 
upon  my  face,  revealing  its  excited  workings. 

*'  I  mean  that  no  mountain  could  keep  me  from 
coming  to  you,  Alice  Bain,"  I  rephed,  in  a  voice 
as  hoarse  as  the  roar  of  the  mad  river. 

She  started  with  an  exclamation  of  overwhelm- 
ing surprise,  and  half  turned  from  me.  As  she 
did  so  her  eye  fell  upon  the  moonlit  stream,  and 
she  exclaimed,  with  a  start : 

*'  See,  see,  Mr.  De  Jeunette,  how  the  river  has 
risen!  It  is  above  Lewis's  rock!"  And  she 
pointed  to  where  I  had  seen  a  huge  boulder  ris- 
ing above  the  surface  when  we  first  came  to  the 
Point.  Her  voice  was  tremulous  with  excitement 
and  alarm  as  she  proceeded : 

"  Oh,  what  an  awful  freshet !     The  high  water 


THE   FRESHET.  45 

of  'Ninety-five  did  not  overflow  that  at  all.  That 
was  why  it  was  named  Lewis's  rock.  He  was 
washed  away  and  caught  on  that,  and  stayed  two 
days  and  nights  till  he  was  taken  off  in  a  canoe !" 
She  had  not  thought  of  love,  and  the  sight  of  the 
stream  at  such  unusual  height  drove  my  avowal 
from  her  mind.  ''  And  it  is  still  rising,"  she  con- 
tinued. *'  Do  you  not  see  how  it  arches  in  the 
middle?  It  is  always  so  in  a  fresh.  When  it 
begins  to  fall  it  will  be  the  lowest  there.  See  the 
eddies  along  the  current !  I  never  saw  them  so 
thick — and — look  there,  Mr.  De  Jeunette.^"  She 
pointed  to  the  stream  below  where  we  stood. 
The  restless,  eager  waters  were  lapping  and  pat- 
tering among  the  loose  stones  and  driftwood 
almost  at  our  feet. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  said  Alice  suddenly.  I  had 
heard  it  once  or  twice  before,  but  had  not  thought 
anything  of  it.  It  was  the  sharp,  anxious  neigh 
of  my  horse  Sachem.  Now  that  I  listened  to  it 
I  noted  an  unmistakable  accent,  so  to  speak,  of 
alarm  and  terror  in  his  familiar  call. 

I  comprehended  the  situation  in  an  instant. 
The  river  had  risen,  and  the  low-lying  second  bot- 
toms had  been  overflowed. 

"  We  must  go  back,  Miss  Alice.     The  river  has 


46  JOHN  EAX. 

burst  across  the  Point,  I  fear,  and  we  have  not  a 
moment  to  lose !" 

"  It  cannot  be !"  she  answered,  in  that  tone  in 
which  persons  argue  against  indisputable  but  un- 
pleasant facts.  "  The  Point  land  never  over- 
flows !" 

"  But  you  forget,  Miss  Alice,  that  you  just  said 
that  the  river  was  higher  than  it  was  in  'Ninety- 
five,  which  is  the  highest  that  has  ever  been  known 
here." 

^'  Oh,  it  cannot  be  !"  she  cried,  as  we  scrambled 
over  the  loose  rocks  and  low  bushes  towards  the 
horses. 

Before  we  came  to  them  we  met  what  we  dread- 
ed— the  insidious,  silent  enemy,  creeping  among 
the  leaves  and  stones,  with  a  half-gurgling  laugh. 

^' Stay  here.  Miss  Alice!"  I  cried.  "I  will  get 
the  horses.  Do  not  be  afraid,"  I  cried  lightly; 
*'  it  will  be  all  right,  and  an  adventure  we  shall 
have  great  sport  over,  some  day." 

''  Oh,  you  do  not  know !"  she  cried,  as  she 
turned  towards  me  a  face  pallid  with  fear.  *'  You 
do  not  know  the  terrible,  treacherous  river !  It 
has  swept  across  the  Point,  as  you  say,  and  who 
can  tell  where  the  current  is  now,  or  find  the 
road  I" 


THE   FRESHET.  47 

I  raised  her  in  my  arms,  and  placed  her  on  a 
rock  where  she  could  sit  down.  How  my  heart 
beat !  I  was  glad  of  this  terrible  danger.  I  al- 
most hoped  we  might  die  there  together.  I  would 
tell  her  how  I  loved  her  and  we  would  sleep  in 
the  grave  together,  and  Cousin  Louie  should 
never  know  my  secret.  But  the  poor  child's  ter- 
ror was  so  extreme  that  I  would  not  breathe  a 
word  of  my  mad  thoughts  to  her.  I  made  her 
sit  down  on  the  rock  to  which  I  had  carried  her, 
talking  all  the  time  in  light,  cheery  tones,  caught 
one  kiss  from  her  upturned,  quivering  lips,  which 
were  all  unconscious  of  the  larceny,  and  dashed 
away  into  the  water  to  Sachem,  who  was  now 
calling  to  me  in  evident  terror. 

It  was  but  a  few  yards,  yet  it  seemed  miles 
through  the  deepening  waters.  The  horses  were 
tethered  just  on  the  outskirts  of  a  growth  of 
stunted  oaks  on  the  little  rise  which  constituted 
the  Point.  When  I  reached  them  the  water  had 
risen  to  the  girth,  and  Sachem  was  pawing  the 
creeping  thing  and  snorting  furiously.  He  recog- 
nized me  in  an  instant,  and  became  as  quiet  as  a 
lamb. 

He  was  a  compact  and  powerful  thoroughbred, 
and  had  been  a  favorite  from  a  suckling.     He  was 


48  JOHN  EAX, 

of  a  stock  noted  for  endurance  and  sagacity.  As 
soon  as  I  came  his  excitement  vanished.  He  oc- 
casionally raised  his  head  and  looked  over  the 
watery  waste  (which  was  all  around  us  now)  with 
a  snort  of  inquiry,  but  was  obedient  to  my  light- 
est word.  Even  in  the  midst  of  the  danger  that 
threatened,  I  was  proud  of  my  noble  steed.  I 
patted  his  arched  neck,  and  called  him  pet  names 
as  I  unloosed  the  bridle  with  a  sort  of  delirious 
joy. 

The  mare  which  my  companion  had  ridden  had 
not  the  high  breeding  of  my  noble  bay.  She  was 
cold-blooded,  and  shrunk  and  cowered  among  the 
low  bushes,  pulling  wildly  at  the  halter,  and  gaz- 
ing with  swelling  nostrils  and  rolling  eyes  at  the 
wild  torrent  that  now  rushed  between  us  and  the 
upland.  Neither  words  nor  blows  could  soothe 
or  subdue  her.  She  was  thoroughly  and  uncon- 
trollably terrified.  The  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion had  overridden  the  training  of  man,  and  she 
had  gone  back  to  the  wildness  of  her  base  ances- 
try upon  the  banks  of  our  eastern  shore. 

I  hastily  stripped  the  saddle  from  her  back,  and 
bound  it  upon  Sachem,  and,  taking  his  upon  my 
arm,  made  my  way  back  to  Alice  Bain.  My  mind 
was  made  up.     I  was  sure  the  mare  would  never 


THE  FRESHET.  49 

take  the  water,  and  equally  sure  that  Sachem 
would  bear  Alice  safely  home.  If,  then,  the 
water  subsided  before  it  reached  my  perch — well. 
If  not,  there  would  be  one  less  De  Jeunette  and 
no  cousin  Lou  to  upbraid  me  for  inconstancy. 

I  lifted  Alice  into  the  saddle  and  put  her  foot 
into  the  stirrup,  without  a  word.  Then  I  gave 
her  the  reins  in  one  hand  and  a  lock  of  Sachem's 
long  silky  mane  in  the  other. 

"  Miss  Alice,  "  I  said — huskily,  I  do  not  doubt 
— "  do  not  try  to  guide  him.  Let  him  have  his 
head  and  just  cling  to  your  seat,  and  he  will  take 
you  home." 

Poor  child !  she  had  not  noticed  what  I  had 
done  before. 

'' O  Mr.  De  Jeunette!"  she  cried,  ''how  could 
you  give  me  your  horse  ?  Dare  you  trust  my 
poor  filly?" 

"I  shall  not  think  of  it,"  I  replied.  ''She  is 
past  all  control  with  fear." 

As  I  spoke,  the  mare  broke  from  her  fasten- 
ings, and  rushed  wildly  past  us.  I  caught  the 
shawl  from  Alice's  shoulders  and  threw  it  over 
Sachem's  head,  that  he  might  not  see  the  course 
she  took.  Struggling  through  the  rising  water 
and  thick  bushes,  the  terrified  beast  rushed  across 


so  JOHN  EAX. 

the  now  narrow  island,  and  dashed  into  the  resist- 
less torrent  beyond.  We  watched  her  silently,  as 
she  swam  with  the  stream  until  her  head  was  lost 
in  the  distance  and  darkness. 

Then  I  unmuffled  Sachem's  head,  and  began 
leading  him  away  from  the  pine.  This  was  the 
only  landmark  on  which  I  could  rely.  I  went  on 
and  on  until  the  water  was  above  my  hips,  and 
surging  past  me  like  a  mill-race.  I  could  be  of  no 
further  use  to  her,  and  I  knew  that  the  strong 
high-bred  horse  would  take  her  safely  across.  I 
stopped  and  said : 

''  Good-by,  Miss  Alice.  Remember.  Do  not  try 
to  guide  him.  He  is  of  good  Pilot  stock,  and  can 
be  trusted.  When  you  get  across,  call  as  loudly 
as  you  can,  that  I  may  know  that  you  are  safe." 

"  But  what  will  you  do  ?" 

"  The  best  I  can.  No  matter — only — .  Put 
your  head  down  lower,  so  that  I  can  whisper  in 
your  ear.  There  now,  little  AUie,  remember — 
remember  always — my  last  message.  Do  you 
hear  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  De  Jeunette,"  tearfully. 

"And  will  you  remember  it  very  carefully?" 

"  As  long  as  I  live,"  came  solemnly  from  the 
trembling  lips. 


THE  FRESHET.  5^ 

"  Remember,  then,  that  Charles  De  Jeunette 
loves  Alice  Bain  better  than  all  the  world  beside." 

A  startled  moan  burst  from  her  as  she  half  fell 
upon  my  neck.  I  held  her  close  for  an  instant, 
and  then  said : 

''  Give  me  one  kiss,  Allie,  darling." 

"  Our  lips  met  for  an  instant.  Then  I  placed 
her  well  in  the  saddle  again  and  loosed  the  horse, 
who  was  growing  restive. 

"  Do  not  forget  to  call  when  you  reach  the 
land,"  I  cried,  as  she  rode  away.  There  was  no 
answer,  and  I  struggled  back  tow^ards  the  pine 
which  marked  the  highest  ground,  uncertain 
whether  she  had  heard  my  injunction  or  not. 

I  found  the  island  rapidly  decreasing  in  size. 
The  water  was  rising  still.  The  rock  on  which  I 
had  placed  Alice  was  just  above  water.  I  scram- 
bled to  it  and  looked  out  over  the  waste  to  see, 
if  I  could,  what  had  become  of  the  horse  and  his 
rider.  I  could  see  nothing  of  them.  I  waited 
patiently.  The  water  crept  over  the  rock.  I 
looked  and  listened.  If  I  could  but  know  that 
Alice  was  safe — I  cared  little  for  myself.  At 
length  I  thought  I  heard  a  faint  hail,  and  an- 
swered it  with  a  long  hulloo — the  Hea-yi-bee  !  of 
the  piney-woods  hunters.     I  was  not  sure,  but  I 


52  JOHN  EAX. 

thought  a  woman's  voice  replied.  Then  I  heard 
a  loud,  questioning  neigh.  It  was  Sachem's  call 
for  his  master.  I  knew  it  well.  The  water  was 
above  my  knees.  I  looked  around  and  saw  that 
the  pine  was  gone.  The  fierce  current  was  rapidly 
washing  away  the  loose  soil  of  the  Point.  Again 
I  heard  the  neigh  of  my  faithful  horse.  A 
thought  struck  me.  I  put  my  hands  to  my 
mouth  and  sent  a  shrill,  piercing  whistle  across 
the  water.  I  had  been-  used  to  call  him  in  that 
way.  No  ordinary  object  would,  I  knew,  prevent 
his  coming  to  me  if  he  heard  it.  Whether  he 
would  take  the  water  again  I  did  not  know.  Alice 
was  safe.     The  rest  mattered  little. 

Yes,  he  hears  me !  the  long  answering  neigh 
comes  across  the  turgid  expanse.  Words  could 
not  say  plainer ''  What  shall  I  do  ?"  than  the  neigh 
of  my  noble  steed.  Again  I  sound  the  call.  There 
is  a  hurried  whinny  and  I  hear  no  more.  Again 
and  again  I  call,  but  there  is  no  response.  Has 
he  taken  the  water  or  has  Alice  ridden  him  away 
to  get  help  for  me  ?  The  water  is  still  creeping 
higher.  I  take  off  my  boots  and  remove  my 
clothing  by  degrees,  still  whistling  occasionally  to 
guide  Sachem  should  he  be  returning.  The  time 
grows  long.     He  will  not  come.     I  whistle  once 


THE   FRESHET.  53 

more.  There  is  a  smothered  whinny  from  the 
water  not  a  dozen  yards  away. 

'^  Here,  here,  Sachem,  my  brave  horse !"  And 
now  I  pat  his  nose  and  see  the  white  spume  fly 
from  his  nostrils. 

Taking  a  good  grip  in  his  mane  I  turn  his  head, 
and  swimming  beside  him,  we  make  for  the  shore. 
Before  we  reach  the  upland,  it  is  alive  with 
torches,  and  friendly  arms  grasp  us  both  as  we 
touch  bottom. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A     BETROTHAL. 

T  DID  not  see  Alice  until  the  next  morning. 
•*■  They  told  me  how  the  noble  horse  had 
brought  her  safely  through  the  rushing  torrent, 
and  when  he  answered  my  whistle  with  a  neigh, 
she  had  stripped  the  saddle  from  him  and  sent 
him  back  to  me,  while  she  ran  on  to  the  house  to 
give  the  alarm. 

*•'  She  was  mighty  took  back,  too,"  said  her 
uncle,  "  to  think  she  had  ridden  away  your  horse 
and  left  you  there  to  drown  alone.  Poor  gal ! 
she  been  taking  on  powerful  about  it  ever  since  ; 
and  it  was  all  her  aunt  could  do  to  keep  her  from 
coming  back  with  us,  wet  as  she  was,  and  know- 
in'  she  could  do  no  good.  Here,  you  boys,  some 
of  you,  go  on  ahead  and  tell  Miss  Alice  that  Mr. 
De  Jeunette  is  all  right,"  he  said  to  the  negroes 
who  were  with  us. 

It  was  a  useless  command,  for  a  dozen  had 
already  flown  to  the  overseer's   house  with  the 


A   BETROTHAL.  55 

news,  which  they  knew  would  win  her  smiles  and 
thanks. 

The  next  morning,  when  I  went  down  to  break- 
fast, the  overseer  was  sitting  on  the  porch  looking 
off  upon  the  landscape  glistening  in  the  sunlight 
of  a  cloudless  morning.  The  river  had  reached 
its  highest  some  time  during  the  night,  he  said, 
and  he  could  now  rest  from  the  exciting  labors  of 
the  past  few  days.  He  would  go  around  in  the 
evening  and  see  that  "  the  suck,"  which  always 
sets  in  when  the  fresh  begins  to  fall,  did  as  little 
damage  as  might  be. 

While  he  spoke  Alice  appeared.  I  can  see 
her  yet  as  she  stood  in  the  low  doorway,  the 
light  muslin  falling  daintily  about  her  slight 
form,  her  face  still  flushed  with  the  ebb  of  last 
night's  excitement,  and  her  eyes  full  of  soft 
light,  which  spoke  of  tears  that  were  not  all  bit- 
terness. 

In  the  first  glance  I  read  her  heart.  Her  face 
flushed  in  an  instant,  and  coming  forward  she 
gave  me  her  hand,  saying,  as  her  eyes  fell  beneath 
my  glances : 

"  O  Mr.  De  Jeunette,  I  am  so  ashamed  that  I 
came  away  last  night  without  even — ** 

"Without    even   answering   my   question?"    I 


$6  JOHN  EAX, 

interrupted.    "Nevermind.    I  would  much  rather 
you  would  do  so  now." 

She  looked  up  almost  appealingly,  her  face 
flaming  like  the  morning  she  adorned,  but  did  not 
remove  her  hand  from  mine. 

I  put  my  arm  about  her  waist,  drew  her  to  me, 
and  kissed  her  lips.  She  hid  her  face  upon  my 
breast  with  a  half-frightened  sob,  and  I  stroked  the 
sunny  ringlets  that  fell  about  the  shapely  head, 
while  the  morning  sun  played  amid  their  lights 
and  shadows. 

The  overseer  had  watched  this  by-play  with 
amazement,  which  he  could  not  read  aright.  He 
had  arisen  and  came  towards  us  with  a  look  on 
his  face  scarcely  removed  from  horror. 

"  Poor  gal !"  he  said  in  a  pitying  tone,  as  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  her  arm.  *'  Last  night  was  too 
much  for  her  to  bear.  She's  always  been  delicate 
like,  and  I  'spects  she's  hystericky  now." 

*'  Will  you  let  me  have  her,  Mr.  Bain  ?"  I  asked 
as  I  kept  on  stroking  the  fair  head  that  nestled 
closer  at  my  words. 

"  What !  what !  you  do  not  mean" — said  the 
old  man  in  an  amazement,  which  stopped  short 
at  this  point  for  want  of  words  to  express  its  in- 
tensity. 


A   BETROTHAL.  57 

"  I  mean,"  I  said,  ''  to  ask  you  for  your  niece, 
Alice  Bain,  to  be  my  wife." 

A  low  cry  of  joy  came  from  the  head  on  my 
breast.     I  bowed,  and  kissed  its  golden  covering. 

The  old  man  tottered  backw^ard  to  his  chair. 

*' You — you  do  not  mean  it.  You  cannot  mean 
it !"  he  exclaimed,  and  then  added  angrily,  as 
another  thought  came  over  him,  ''  You  are  trifling 
with  my  little  gal,  sir!" 

**As  God  is  my  judge,  Mr.  Bain,  I  have  no 
other  hope  in  this  world,"  I  answered  solemnly. 

He  sat  down  and  gazed  at  us  in  unsatisfied 
wonder.  A  climbing  rose  ran  over  the  post  of 
the  piazza  near  which  we  stood,  and  I  plucked  the 
fresh  storm-washed  blossoms,  and  put  them  in 
AUie's  hair. 

*'  O  Mistress,  Mistress  !"  said  the  overseer,  call- 
ing to  his  wife. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  and  a  portly  dame  stood 
in  the  doorway,  cheerful  and  smiling. 

''  Mistress,  Mr.  Charles  w^ants  our  AUie." 

*'  Wants  her!"  returned  the  dame  with  a  laugh. 
^'  Hasn't  he  got  her?" 

The  laugh  was  a  corrective.  It  infected  the 
entire  group.  I  laughed  so  that  I  deranged  the 
roses  in  Alice's  hair.    A  little  ripple  came  up  from 


58  JOHN  EAX. 

my  breast.      Even  the  overseer  could  not  help 
chuckling  dryly  at  the  unexpected  reply. 

^*  But  he  wants  to  marry  her  !"  he  said. 

"  To  marry  her?"  The  ripple  of  laughter  faded 
from  her  fair  matronly  face  as  she  looked  ear- 
nestly toward  us. 

*'  That  is  my  wish,"  I  said,  answering  her  look 
rather  than  her  words. 

'*  Then  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't,"  she 
said  thoughtfully. 

''  But  he  is  a  De  Jeunette,  wife !  A  De  Jeu- 
nette,  Mistress  !"  said  the  old  man  excitedly. 

"  And  if  he  was  a  king,  Alec,  he  is  none  too 
good  for  our  little  Alice !"  answered  his  wife, 
turning  sharply  upon  him. 

"  True, — true,"  said  the  old  man  doubtfully ; 
'■'■  if  he  means  it — '* 

*' Did  a  De  Jeunette  ever  lie  ?"  I  said  to  him 
hotly. 

**  No,  no.  But  it  is  so  strange — so  sudden, 
Mr.  Charles.  I'm  powerful  'fraid  this  '11  be  an 
unfortunate  fresh  to  us.  Mistress." 

The  old  woman  went  up  to  him  and  put  her 
hand  on  his  almost  bare  crown  lovingly,  as  she  said  : 

"  We  have  done  our  duty.  Alec.  If  Allie  is 
willing,  why  should  we  stand  in  the  way  ?" 


A   BETROTHAL.  59 

**  Oh !  I  don't  mean  to  object,"  he  returned, 
absently — "  only  it  is  so  strange — so  sudden — so 
unreasonable-like  !" 

"  Then,  little  Allie,"  I  said  gayly,  "  it  is  for  you 
to  decide.  What  do  you  say  ?  Will  you  marry 
a  terrible  De  Jeunette  ?" 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  up  with  her 
eyes  full  of  lovelight  ;  and  there  under  the  dewy 
rose-spray  in  the  bright  morning  sunlight  I  kissed 
my  rose-crowned  queen. 

This  was  our  courtship.  She  begged  for  a 
year's  delay  to  our  marriage,  that  she  might  fit 
herself  still  better  for  the  terrible  station  to  which 
my  love,  as  she  thought,  had  raised  her.  The 
next  morning  I  went  home,  and  within  a  week 
Alice  had  gone  to  attend  a  famous  school  at  the 
North.  It  was  not  necessary,  for  the  old  over- 
seer had  given  her  every  advantage,  and  few  of 
the  aristocratic  De  Jeunette  clique  could  boast 
of  as  thorough  culture  as  my  little  woodland 
bird. 

It  was  agreed,  however,  that  our  engagement 
should  be  kept  secret  until  the  year  had  passed. 


CHAPTER   VI. 


MOTHER    AND    SON. 


A  /FY  cousin  Louie  was  a  favorite  with  my 
-*^^-*-  mother,  who  had  become  almost  as  much 
of  a  De  Jeunette  as  if  the  blood  of  the  Vaudois, 
instead  of  that  of  the  most  bigoted  of  papisti- 
cal stock,  ran  in  her  veins.  It  seemed  as  if  no 
one  could  be  submitted  to  the  charm  of  our  De 
Jeunette  life — proud,  haughty,  and  exclusive,  yet 
cordial  and  tender  to  each  other — without  yield- 
.  ing  to  its  influences,  and,  if  allied  to  the  family  at 
all,  counting  that  the  proudest  quartering  in  the 
field  of  his  descent.  So,  though  my  mother  often 
accounted  for  my  eccentricities  by  calling  me 
''her  Neal,"  she  was  far  more  desirous  that  I 
should  be  a  De  Jeunette,  and  was  chiefly  proud 
that  she  had  borne  a  De  Jeunette,  for  I  was  an 
only  child. 

Scarcely  had  Alice  gone  away  when  my  trouble 
commenced.  I  had  assured  her  that  all  I  had  to 
do  to  secure  her  proper  reception  as  my  wife,  was 
to  announce  the  fact  to  my  family.     Such  I  half 


MOTHER  AND   SON.  6 1 

thought  to  be  the  truth.  I  intended  to  carry  it 
through  with  a  high  hand,  as  I  had  all  previous 
innovations  which  I  had  chosen  to  attempt. 
Alas  !  I  sadly  mistook  the  imperious  nature  of 
the  stock  from  which  I  came. 

My  mother  had  been  an  invalid  for  a  year  or 
two.  I  do  not  know  of  what  disease  she  was  ail- 
ing. She  had  not  seemed  very  ill,  and  I  knew 
had  not  been  considered  "  dangerous." 

One  evening  a  boy  came  to  my  office  with  a 
led  horse,  and  a  request  from  my  mother  that  I 
would  ride  to  Beaumont  without  delay.  She  did 
not  say  she  was  worse,  and  the  boy — one  of  the 
home-servants — thought  '*  Miss  Mary  was  much 
the  same  as  usual."  I  was  very  busy  that  after- 
noon preparing  an  important  case.  No  matter. 
The  instinct  of  the  De  Jeunette  was  strong  in  my 
breast — stronger  than  I  knew,  or  would  allow — 
and  no  De  Jeunette  of  whatever  age  had  ever 
failed  to  answer  and  obey  the  request  of  his 
mother.  That  was  a  sacred  and  immemorial 
tradition  in  our  family.  I  was  a  De  Jeunette, 
and  in  twenty  minutes  my  client  had  been  dis- 
missed with  instructions  to  come  at  a  more  con- 
venient  season,  my  office  door  was  locked,  and  I 
was  on  my  way  to  Beaumont. 


62  JOHN  EAX. 

I  found  my  mother  in  a  state  of  strange  excite- 
ment. She  was  sitting  propped  up  in  her  bed, 
paler  and  weaker  than  I  had  ever  seen  her  before, 
but  with  a  recurrent  flush  upon  her  dehcate 
cheek,  and  a  pecuHar  light  in  her  warm  gray  eye 
which  I  had  never  witnessed  before.  Louie  was 
with  her,  attending  upon  and  caring  for  her.  That 
magnificent  beauty  which  had  given  her  the 
sobriquet  of  Queen  in  all  the  country  round 
seemed  to  be  enhanced  by  the  contrast  with  the 
pale  blond  invalid  whose  charms  neither  years 
nor  disease  could  altogether  obliterate.  There 
was  a  look  of  unwonted  tenderness,  too,  in  the 
grand  dark  eyes  as  she  looked  up  at  me  when  I 
entered  the  room.  She  was  standing  with  her 
left  arm  thrown  carelessly  over  the  mass  of  pil- 
lows against  which  my  mother  reclined,  upon  the 
high,  old-fashioned,  four-poster  bed.  With  her 
right  hand  she  was  fanning  her  charge,  while  from 
a  small  round  table  beside  the  bed  came  up  the 
mingled  fragrance  of  mignonette  and  the  spicy 
honeysuckle,  which  grows  far  more  luxuriant 
among  our  Carolina  hills  than  in  its  Oriental  home. 
It  was  a  favorite  with  Louie,  and  in  its  season, 
which  is  almost  the  whole  summer,  its  dull-green 
leaves   and    delicate    waxy-white   blossoms   were 


MOTHER  AND   SON.  63 

always  to  be  found  at  her  throat,  in  her  girdle,  or 
twined  among  the  meshes  of  her  abundant  hair. 
And  in  truth  its  strong,  subtle,  pungent  odor,  as 
well  as  the  flowers  and  leaves,  admirably  became 
the  passionate  intensity  and  unobtrusive  self- 
reliance  of  my  cousin.  She  was  dressed  that  day, 
I  remember,  in  pure  white,  relieved  only  by  the 
foliage  of  this  flower. 

As  I  rose  up  after  saluting  my  mother,  who  was 
still  clasping  my  right  hand  in  her  two  feeble 
ones,  I  gave  my  left  to  Louie,  and,  leaning  for- 
ward, kissed  her  lips.  It  was  no  new  thing.  I 
had  kissed  my  beautiful  cousin  almost  as  often  as 
we  had  met  since  we  were  children  together. 
But  there  seemed  to  be  some  new  meaning  in  this 
salutation,  both  for  her  and  for  me.  It  was  long 
since  I  had  seen  her;  I  was  dazzled  with  her 
beauty  and  confused  with  the  sense  of  my  new 
secret.  If  she  spoke  at  all  I  have  forgotten  it.  I 
suppose  she  did,  and  I  may  have  answered  me- 
chanically. 

What  first  impressed  my  consciousness  was  that 
she  had  dropped  my  hand  and  was  going  from 
the  room.  Her  cheek  and  neck,  even  the  delicate 
ears,  were  flushed  a  burning  crimson. 

I  felt  my  mother  stroking  my  hand  with  hers. 


64  JOHN  EAX. 

I  looked  down  and  saw  her  face  radiant  with  a 
peaceful  joy. 

"  Is  she  not  glorious  ?'*  she  whispered,  her  eyes 
following  the  retreating  figure  to  the  door. 

''  Divine !"  I  murmured  absently,  but  without 
hesitation. 

''You  are  right,"  she  responded,  ''for  Louie  is 
more  noble  in  mind  and  spirit  than  beautiful  in 
face  and  form.  Go,  my  son,"  she  continued,  re- 
leasing my  hand,  "  and  make  her  yours  at  once. 
Her  heart  is  yearning  to  bestow  its  sweets,  and 
half-grieved  at  your  ungallant  coldness  toward  her. 
Go,  and  let  me  see  those  whom  I  most  love  unit- 
ed before  I  die." 

I  stood  thunderstruck.  The  fond  hope  of  my 
mother  and  the  glorious  vision  of  Louie's  beauty 
strove  in  my  excited  mind  with  the  memory  of 
my  absent  Alice.  How  dim  that  memory  seemed  ! 
How  foreign  from  Beaumont  and  its  luxurious 
accompaniments!  Had  I  been  foohsh  to  pluck 
that  w^ildwoods  flower?  God  forgive  me  if  I 
thought  so  for  one  moment. 

*'Go,  my  son,"  urged  my  mother.  *'Do  not  be 
afraid  to  meet  your  fate.  Trust  me ;  Louie  has 
been  waiting  to  say  'Yes*  this  many  a  day,"  she 
added  with  a  smile- 


MOTHER  AND   SON,  65 

She  thought  it  was  fear  of  a  refusal  that  fet- 
tered my  feet.  At  once  my  trouble  of  mind  was 
gone.  It  was  as  if  Alice  stood  beside  me  and 
strengthened  me  by  her  presence.  It  was  a  terri- 
ble task  that  lay  before  me,  but  I  would  not 
shrink  from  it.  I  sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  my 
mother's  bed  and  took  her  hand  again. 

"■  Mother,"  I  said,  earnestly  and  tenderly,  for  I 
feared  to  wound  that  loving  heart  as  I  knew  I 
must.     '*  Mother,  I  cannot  do  it !" 

''Cannot  do  what?"  she  asked,  in  surprise, 
**  Cannot  ask  your  cousin  Louie  to  be  your  wife? 
Why,  when  became  my  boy  so  timid  ?" 

"  It  is  not  timidity,  mother." 

"Not  timidity?  What  then  is  it?"  Then, 
looking  into  my  troubled  face,  she  continued  half 
banteringly,  ''  Perhaps  you  who  have  so  nearly 
cast  off  your  relatives  do  not  consider  the  Queen 
of  the  De  Jeunettes  good  enough  to  mate  with 
you  ?" 

Her  sarcasm  had  a  double  sting. 

"  O  mother !"  I  said  hurriedly,  "  you  know  I 
never  had  such  a  thought.    The  truth  is — I — I — " 

"Well,  'You'— what!  Foolish  boy!"  Still 
smiling,  and  unconscious  of  the  terrible  bolt  which 
was  soon  to  blast  her  love  and  confidence.    "  You 


66  JOHN  EAX. 

have  been  a  bachelor  hermit  so  long  that  you 
have  lost  your  share  of  sense,  very  nearly." 

*'  But,  mother." 

"  Well,  I  hear." 
;'     "  I  am  already — engaged." 

"  What !"  exclaimed  my  mother,  her  counte- 
nance becoming  at  once  of  a  dull  ashen  hue,  with 
astonishment  and  horror.  "  Engaged  !  Engaged 
— and  without  my  knowledge !  Oh,  how  could 
your 

"  It  was  mere  accident,"  I  hastened  to  say ;  "  I 
had  no  idea — " 

"Of  course  not,"  she  interrupted  hotly,  "you 
had  no  idea  that  it  would  make  any  difference 
whether  your  family  were  suited  with  your  action 
or  not !" 

"  I  did  not  mean  that,  mother,"  I  replied.  "  I 
intended  to  say  that  I  had  no  intention  of  acting 
contrary  to  your  wishes,  but  I  was,  in  a  measure, 
the  victim  of  circumstances." 

"  Oh,  if  it  is  only  that,"  she  said,  with  evident 
relief,  "  it  can  all  be  settled  without  any  such  sac- 
rifice. You  have  undoubtedly  been  the  victim  of 
some  designing  thing,  and — " 

"  But,  mother,"  I  said,  now  doubly  embarrass- 
ed, "you  will  not  understand  me.     Whatever  you 


MOTHER   AND   SON,  6y 

may  think  of  me,  I  have  never  disgraced  my  man- 
hood, however  much  the  pride  of  my  family  may 
have  suffered  from  my  acts." 

"  Pray  then,  if  it  is  not  asking  too  much,  will 
you  explain  what  you  did  mean?"  she  said 
coldly. 

"I  meant  that  circumstances  had  conspired  to 
deprive  me  of  all  volition  in  the  matter  before  I 
could  consult  with  you,  or  I  certainly  should  have 
done  so  before  taking  such  a  step,"  I  answered. 

**  I  do  not  understand  how  that  could  be.  Ex- 
plain !" 

*'  I  became  enamored  of  the  lady  whom  I  ex- 
pect to  marry,  and  declared  my  love  when  I  was 
so  situated  that  I  had  little  hope  of  ever  seeing 
you  again,"  I  said, 

*'  You  choose  to  speak  in  riddles,  sir,"  she  said 
sneeringly.  "  Perhaps  you  are  not  willing  to  re- 
veal the  name  of  this  paragon  who  so  overshad- 
ows the  Queen  of  the  De  Jeunettes !  Some  low- 
down  thing  your  family  would  never  dream  of 
recognizing,  1  presume." 

My  face  was  hot.  I  could  not  hear  my  sweet 
Alice  insulted,  even  by  my  mother. 

*'  She  is  one,"  I  said  quickly,  "  whom  any  family 
might  be  proud  to  own." 


68  JOHN  EAX, 

"  Name  her,  if  you  please,  sir ;  name  her,  and 
do  not  give  me  your  opinion!" 
.  I  hesitated.  How  should  I  tell  that  proud  and 
exclusive  woman,  the  mother  whose  strong,  fierce 
love  was  centred  upon  me  and  my  well-being, 
but  to  whose  mind  poverty  was  a  sin,  and  whose 
ideas  of  caste  were  as  exclusive  as  those  of  a 
Brahmin — how  should  I  tell  her  that  the  bride  I 
had  chosen  was  the  penniless  Alice  Bain,  the  niece 
of  an  overseer ! 

*'  I  must  acknowledge  she  is  not  wealthy,"  I 
began. 

*'  Her  name,  her  name  !"  she  said  fiercely. 

''  But  she  is  of  a  good,  respectable  family,  and — \ 

"Oh,  I  smell  the  shop,"  she  said  impatiently. 
"  Name  her,  and  be  done  with  it.  Don't  drag  up 
the  filthy  concomitants !" 

''Alice  Bain,"  I  said  shortly. 

"Alice  Bain?  Alice  Bain?  A  pretty  name 
enough,"  said  my  mother,  in  some  surprise;  "but 
who  is  she  ?     Where  does  she  live  ?" 

"On  the  river." 

"  On  the  river.  That  is  definite !  And,  pray, 
how  long  is  the  river,  and  in  what  part  of  its 
course  does  she  live,  sir?"  she  asked,  with  the 
cold,  hard  sneer  again. 


MOTHER   AND   SON.  tg 

"Near  the  Ford — Quelloe's  Ford,"  I  answered. 

'' Near  your  father's  Point  Plantation?" 

"  On  it,"  I  responded. 

"  On  it ! — on  it !  On  your  father's  Point  Plan- 
tation !" 

''Yes,  at  The  Cedars." 

''At  The  Cedars?  How  can  that  be?  Who  z> 
she,  Charles?" 

"  She  is  the  niece  of  Alexander  Bain,  my 
father's  overseer." 

"  The  niece  of  your  father's  overseer !  My 
God,  Charles,  could  you  not  be  content  with  any 
less  disgrace  to  the  family?  But  you  shall  never 
marry  the  jade !     Never,  sir !" 

"  Mother,—" 

"  Don't  call  me  mother !  I  disown  you  from 
this  moment,  unless  you  renounce  her  at  once !" 

"  I  cannot  do  it." 

"You  mean  you  will  not!" 

"Well,  then,  I  zc//// not." 

"  That  is  right !  Complete  your  work.  You 
have  disgraced  your  family  now.  O  Charles ! 
Charles!"  she  cried,  with  a  wail  of  agony  which 
struck  to  my  heart,  "  how  have  I  loved  you,  and 
stood  by  you,  and  defended  you  from  your 
father's  anger,  and  against  the  aspersions  of  your 


70  JOHN  EAX. 

enemies !  And  now,  O  God  !  you  will  marry  an 
overseer's  brat !  The  spawn  of  a  man  who  sells 
himself  to  w^hip  your  father's  niggers !  O  my 
God !  If  only  you  had  died,  or  I,  before  my  heart 
was  broken  with  this  disgrace !" 

"  But,  mother,"  I  said,  trying  to  soften  hei 
anger. 

"  Stop,  sir!  not  a  word.  Hear  what  I  have  to 
say.  Either  break  off  this  horrible  misalliance,  or 
never  come  into  my  presence  again,  living  or 
dead !  Never  enter  this  house,  never  speak  my 
name,  nor  call  yourself  my  son,  for  I  will  disown 
you  before  all  the  world.  Stop !  do  not  answer 
now !     Hand  me  my  watch  !" 

I  took  it  from  the  table  and  put  it  in  her  hand. 

''  Now  go,"  she  said,  ''  and  sit  in  the  window 
yonder.  I  will  call  you  in  half  an  hour  and  hear 
your  answer.     Go  now  !" 

I  started  towards  the  embrasure.  My  mind 
was  already  made  up,  but  I  longed  for  a  moment 
of  time  as  one  does  when  condemned  to  die,  in 
the  vain  hope  that  something — I  knew  not  what 
— might  happen,  to  modify  the  terrible  wrath  of 
my  mother.  I  had  never  in  all  my  life  seen  her 
angry  before.  I  think  few  ever  had.  Hers  was 
one  of  those  natures  which  are  seldom  wrought 


MOTHER   AND   SON,  *J\ 

into  a  passion,  and  whose  anger  when  once  stirred 
is  like  the  besom  of  destruction,  sweeping  all  be- 
fore it.  It  was  so  terrible  that  it  almost  stunned 
me.  I  could  not  comprehend  it.  Though  I  had 
no  idea  of  yielding  to  it,  yet  it  terrified  me  to  the 
core,  and  distressed  me  unspeakably.  I  would  go 
and  see  if  I  could  not  devise  some  means  to  allay  it. 

I  had  hardly  taken  three  steps  when  my  mother 
called  me  by  name.  I  turned.  She  had  started 
from  her  pillows  and  was  gazing  at  me  with  a 
wild  yearning  look,  her  arms  outstretched  towards 
me  in  mute  entreaty.  I  sprang  towards  her  and 
caught  her  in  my  arms.  Her  head  fell  upon  my 
breast,  and  a  torrent  of  wild  sobs  and  tears,  inter- 
mixed with  ejaculations  of  grief  and  entreaty, 
burst  from  her.  After  a  time  she  became  calmer 
and  again  directed  me  to  go.  As  I  turned  to 
obey,  she  caught  me  again. 

"  Once  more,  one  more  embrace,"  she  said,  as 
she  kissed  me  again  and  again.  "  O  Charles ! 
remember  that  your  poor  mother  begs  and  prays 
you  to  grant  her  this  one  last  request!  She  will 
never  make  another,  Charles — and  she  has  not 
been  exacting — not  of  you,  my  boy,  has  she? 
Remember  her  life  is  in  your  answer.  Go  now — 
go — go  !"  and  she  pushed  me  from  her. 


72  JOHN  EAX. 

I  went  again  to  the  embrasure  of  the  window 
and  looked  off  towards  the  other  seats  of  the 
family,  for  a  moment,  trying  to  devise  something 
which  I  might  say  to  appease  this  fond  woman — 
this  mother  whom  I  loved,  as  I  verily  beHeve  I 
did  at  that  moment,  better  than  all  else  on  earth, 
even  Alice  Bain.  Yet  I  had  no  idea  of  renouncing 
Alice.  I  do  not  think  it  was  so  much  the  strength 
of  my  love  as  the  stubbornness  of  my  character, 
the  dread  I  had  of  yielding,  and  the  conviction 
that  my  mother's  request  was  unjust  and  required 
a  shameful  and  dishonorable  act  on  my  part. 

It  was  perhaps  five  or  ten  minutes,  when  my 
mother  called  me,  and  I  returned  to  her  bedside. 
She  was  leaning  forward  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
eager,  burning  eyes.  , 

"You  have  decided?"  she  asked  tremblingly. 

I  merely  bowed. 

*'  And  you  will — you  will  renounce  that  woman. 
You  will  do  as  your  mother  begs  you  to  do  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  Mother,  it  is  unreasonable — and — " 

"  Yes  or  No  ?  We  have  had  argument  enough  !" 
she  interrupted.  ''  For  the  last  time,  will  you  give 
up  this  overseer's  brat?" 

"  I  can  not,"  I  answered  firmly. 


MOTHER   AND   SON.  73 

"What?     What?"  she  said  confusedly. 

**  I  can  not  do  it,"  I  repeated. 

Her  countenance  changed  in  an  instant.  In- 
stead of  love  and  anxiety,  only  pride  and  fierce, 
white-heat  anger  were  there." 

"  Then  go  !"  she  cried.  "  Go  !  you  are  no  longer 
my  son !" 

She  gave  a  slight  cough,  and  a  red  stream  burst 
over  her  thin  lips.  I  sprang  to  her.  She  waved 
me  back  with  a  look  of  aversion  on  her  face,  and 
pointed  to  the  bell  on  the  stand  by  her  bed.  I 
touched  it  hurriedly,  and  my  cousin  Louie  came 
in.  She  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  inquiringly 
as  she  advanced.  Seeing  the  condition  of  my 
mother,  she  became  at  once  the  skillful  and  col- 
lected nurse,  wiped  away  the  blood,  gave  her  some 
soothing  draught,  and  was  preparing  to  lay  her 
back  upon  her  pillows,  when  she  spoke  slowly  and 
with  evident  difficulty,  pointing  her  thin  white 
finger  towards  me  : 

*'  Send  him  out  of  the  house,  Louie.  He  is  not 
my  son,  nor  your  cousin."  In  answer  to  her  in- 
quiring look,  "  You  may  give  him  your  congratu- 
lations, though.  He  is  about  to  marry — marry — 
the  niece  of  his  father's  overseer!" 

Louie  flashed  up  at  me  a  look  of  surprise,  and 


74  JOHN  EAX. 

then  turned  again  to  my  mother,  as  if  doubting 
her  sanity. 

''Oh,  it  is  true,  Louie  !     He  will  not  deny  it!" 

The  look  of  inquiry  changed  into  magnificent 
scorn  on  Louie's  face,  as  she  saw  it  was  no  inven- 
tion of  delirium  that  was  being  told  to  her. 

*'  Congratulate  him,  Louie,  and  send  him  away ; 
and,  Louie,  see  to  it  that  he  never  looks  upon  my 
face  again,  alive  or  dead." 

''  But,  mother,"  I  said  protestingly. 

''  Go  away  !  go  away !"  she  cried  hoarsely,  but 
fiercely,  with  wild  gestures  of  aversion. 

''  Go  !"  cried  Louie.  *'  Do  you  not  see  that  you 
are  killing  her!" 

I  mounted  my  horse  and  rode  away  from  Beau- 
mont. The  next  day  I  was  formally  notified  by 
my  father  that  I  had  been  disinherited,  both  by 
himself  and  by  my  mother  as  regarded  the  prop- 
erty in  her  own  right,  and  that  the  entire  estate 
would  be  devised  to  Cousin  Louie  in  my  stead, 
and  that  I  should  receive  no  benefit  therefrom  ex- 
cept by  marriage  with  the  heiress.  I  was  also  noti- 
fied that  the  family  would  hold  no  intercourse 
with  me,  and  that  if  I  came  upon  the  premises  I 
would  be  arrested  as  a  common  trespasser.  In  a 
day  or  two  the  county  was  flooded  with  circulars 


MOTHER   AND   SON,  75 

stating  the  fact  of  my  disinheritance,  and  warning 

all  persons  not  to  credit  me  on  the  strength  and 

faith  of  the  De  Jeunette  name  or  estate,  as  none 

wearing  it  would  be  responsible  for  my  indebted- 
ness. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


MOVEMENT. 


T  N  a  few  days  my  mother  died,  never  having 
-■-  recovered  from  the  excitement  of  that  last 
interview  with  me.  I  learned  from  the  servants — 
for  the  family  strictly  maintained  the  embargo 
which  had  been  laid  upon  me — that  my  father 
railed  upon  me  as  a  murderer,  and  threatened 
me  with  violence  should  I  attempt  to  attend  the 
burial  of  my  mother.  Nevertheless  I  went.  I 
knew  that  my  father  and  the  entire  family  were 
fierce  and  violent  when  their  passions  were 
aroused,  but  I  was  too  much  like  them  to  be 
deterred  by  any  threats  they  might  make. 

The  service  had  begun  when  I  reached  Beau- 
mont. At  the  door  I  was  met  by  an  old  servant, 
who  entreated  me  not  to  enter.  I  pushed  by  him 
and  went  in  and  sat  down  near  the  coffin.  There 
was  a  large  assembly  of  friends  and  neighbors. 
Two  events  always  broke  down  the  exclusiveness 
of  the  De  Jeunettes — the  marriage  of  a  young 
member  of  the  family  and  the  death  of  an  old 


MOVEMENT.  77 

one.  Every  one,  rich  and  poor,  high  and  low, 
was  invited  to  come  and  rejoice  with  them  on  the 
one  occasion,  and  came  freely  to  mourn  with 
them  on  the  other.  So  there  was  a  large  assem- 
blage in  the  house.  It  seemed  to  me  that  every 
face  was  black  with  wrath.  When  the  services 
were  over,  and  the  undertaker  came  forward  to 
open  the  coffin  for  a  last  look  at  the  dead,  my 
father  arose,  put  his  hand  on  the  man's  arm  and 
whispered  a  word  in  his  ear.  The  man  seemed 
surprised,  but  answered  nothing.  The  pall-bear- 
ers, at  a  gesture  from  him,  took  up  the  coffin  and 
moved  towards  the  door.  We  went  out  to  the 
family  burying-ground,  and  the  gentle,  loving, 
long-suffering,  but  proud  and  inflexible  mother, 
whom  my  unfortunate  idiosyncrasies  had  wound- 
ed to  death,  was  laid  to  rest.  Her  last  request 
had  been  fulfilled.  I  was  not  permitted  to  look 
upon  her  face  after  she  had  sent  me  from  her 
with  that  cold,  repellent  stare,  her  features  pallid 
as  marble,  and  her  lips  crimson  with  the  blood 
which  had  burst  forth  in  consequence  of  her  ex- 
citement. Was  I  her  murderer?  I  stood  leaning 
against  a  tree  near  the  grave  pondering  this  ques- 
tion till  all  had  gone. 

Ko  one  had  spoken  to  me.    In  the  midst  of  my 


78  JOHN  EAX, 

own,  I  was  alone.  All  looked  upon  me  as  a  leper. 
Whatever  I  might  think,  whatever  might  be  the 
truth,  every  De  Jeunette  counted  me  the  mur- 
derer, the  cold,  deliberate,  unfeeling  murderer,  of 
the  most  charming  woman  in  the  connection. 
Not  only  this  :  the  general  sentiment  agreed  with 
this  family  feeling.  The  De  Jeunettes  were  close- 
mouthed.  They  did  not  talk  of  their  affairs.  In 
joy  or  sorrow  they  were  the  same  to  the  world. 
They  did  not  conceal  their  wrath  towards  me, 
but  they  gave  no  reason  for  it  other  than  that  I 
had  caused  my  mother's  death.  I  could  give 
none ;  so  the  world  accepted  as  a  fact  the  state- 
ment that  I  had  killed  my  mother  by  some  act  of 
wanton  disobedience. 

A  servant  approached  and  put  into  my  hand  a 
mourning  card,  with  these  words  hastily  written 
on  it: 

*'  Leave  Beaumont  at  once.  Meet  me  at  the 
old  church  to-night  at  ten  o'clock!  Do  not  de- 
lay !  Louie." 

'*  I  dun  fotch  your  horse  out  in  de  pines  dar," 
said  the  servant,  waving  his  hand  towards  a 
thicket  beyond  the  graveyard.  '*  Miss  Louie  tole 
me  to,  sah." 


MOVEMENT.  79 

"  Why  did  she  tell  you  to  do  so,  Caesar?" 
*^  I  dunno,  sah  ;  only  she  seemed  powerful  anx- 
ious that  you  should  go  away,"  he  replied. 

I  read  the  card  again.  Poor  Louie !  I  could 
do  no  less  than  grant  this  slight  request.  I  tossed 
the  servant  a  coin,  and  crossing  the  graveyard 
rapidly,  entered  the  pines  and  found  my  horse. 
As  I  mounted,  I  heard  voices  in  the  direction  I 
had  come.  I  rode  up  to  the  edge  of  the  pines  to 
see  what  occasioned  it.  Standing  on  the  very 
spot  I  had  left  but  a  few  seconds  before,  were 
several  of  my  cousins.  It  did  not  need  the  dis- 
connected remarks  which  I  caught,  to  tell  me 
their  object.  Their  knotted  brows  and  angry 
gestures  told  enough.  They  had  come  to  im- 
molate the  son  at  the  mother's  grave.  The  spirit 
was  strong  in  me  to  rush  back  and  defy  them. 
But  no,  I  would  not  engage  in  any  broil  at  that 
time,  especially  with  my  kindred.  The  sight 
hardened  me,  however,  beyond  all  power  to  be 
softened  afterwards.  I  would  fight  them  when- 
ever they  desired,  after  that  day.  They  should 
find  they  could  not  trample  upon  me  with  im- 
punity. Who  were  the  De  Jeunettes  that  they 
should  thus  presume  to  rule  and  dictate?  Was 
not  I   one  of  them  ?     Was  not  their  imperious 


80  JOHN  EAX. 

pride  the  badge  and  guarantee  of  my  own  free- 
dom of  action  ?  They  should  find  that  they  had 
in  me  no  unworthy  enemy  to  contend  with.  So 
I  rode  away  full  of  bitterer  thoughts  than  I  had 
known  before. 

Arriving  at  my  office,  I  found  fresh  cause  for 
excitement.  Old  Alec  Bain,  the  uncle  of  Alice, 
was  waiting  there  for  me.  After  the  ordinary 
salutations,  he  said : 

"Well,  Mr.  Charles,  I've  come  to  say  good-by. 
Just  as  I  was  afeard,  that  fresh  has  been  the  most 
unfort'nit  one  to  us.  The  Mistis  axed  me  to  be 
sure  and  tell  ye,  though,  that  we  didn't  'tach  no 
manner  of  blame  to  you,  Mr.  Charles." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Bain  ?"  I  asked,  in 
astonishment. 

"  I  knowed,  Mr.  Charles,  that  it  wouldn't  do  no 
way  for  you  to  be  thinking  of  our  Allie,  an'  said 
so,  you  remember,  at  the  time.  Though  I  do 
believe  that  if  two  young  critters  ever  loved 
each  other,  it's  you  and  Allie.  But  it's  too  far 
atween,  you  .see.  You  are  too  rich,  an'  she's 
too  poor  to  have  love  grow  and  prosper,  Mr. 
Charles." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Mr.  Bain,  explain  your- 
self !     I  cannot  understand   you.     Why  are  you 


MOVEMENT.  8 1 

come  to  say,  '  Good-by '  ?"  I  asked,  going  back 
^o  his  first  enigma. 

'*  Jes'  cause  I'm  gwine,"  he  replied. 

''Going?     Going  where ?" 

''That's  more'n  I  can  tell  ye.  I'm  gwine  some- 
where, if  I  kin,  whar  a  white  man,  if  he  is  poor, 
can  hold  his  own  with  his  neighbors,  let  'em  be  as 
rich  as  they  may.  Allie's  been  writin'  to  us  that 
the  North's  a  heap  nigher  bein'  that  sort  of  place 
than  we've  ever  hed  any  notion  on.  So  I 
'llowed  we'd  go  up  an'  see  her  a  bit  and  look 
around.  I  doubt  if  we  ever  come  back  here 
again.  I'm  satisfied,  and  always  have  been,  for 
that  matter,  that  the  South's  no  place  for  a  poor 
man.  He's  just  got  no  place  nor  business  here, 
only  jes*  to  be  a  sort  of  daubin'  to  fill  the  chinks 
atween  master  and  nigger." 

"  You  do  not  mean  that  you  are  actually  going 
away,  Mr.  Bain?" 

"  Going  away.  If  I  live  to  see  to-morrow  night, 
I'll  take  my  first  ride  on  a  railroad  train ;  that's 
shore ./" 

"  But  what's  the  cause  of  this  sudden  move  ?" 

"Don't  you  know,  Mr.  Charles?" 

"Indeed  I  do  not." 

"  Hain't  you  heard  of   anythin'  that  ought  to 


82  JOHN  EAX. 

make  old  Alec  Bain  think  of  makln'  himself 
scarce  in  this  country?" 

I  assured  him  that  I  had  not;  and  then  he 
gave  me  a  history  of  the  past  few  weeks,  which 
raised  my  anger  to  a  pitch  of  fury  before  un- 
known. During  that  interval  every  horse  and 
cow  that  belonged  to  the  old  man  had  been 
killed  or  maimed,  and  herds  of  cattle  turned 
loose  upon  the  corn  bottoms  which  he  had  rented 
and  was  working  himself. 

*'  I  knowed,"  he  said,  ''  almost  from  the  first 
that  it  was  the  work  of  no  one  but  your  family, 
and  told  the  Mistis  so ;  I  knowed  they  wasn't 
never  going  to  forgive  me  for  your  chancin'  to 
love  my  little  AUie.  I  said,  too,  that  there  wasn't 
no  sense  in  trying  to  make  a  fight  with  the  De 
Jeunettes.  I  knowed  they  wasn't  doing  on't 
themselves,  but  just  a  crowd  of  low-down  white 
trash,  who  will  do  their  bidding,  if  they  do  '  risk 
the  widder,'  for  the  sake  of  a  little  money.  An* 
even  if  I  should  manage  to  get  them  punished 
after  a  long  time,  I'd  have  nothing  left  myself  for 
the  stock  I'd  lost.  So  I  concluded  'twas  no  use 
to  mend  what  was  broke,  but  just  went  to  your 
father  and  told  him  what  had  happened,  as  if  I 
hadn't  any  sort  of  idea  who  did  it.     He   didn't 


MOVEMENT.  83 

seem  no  way  surprised  ;  and  when  I  said  that  I 
had  concluded  to  pick  up  and  leave  the  planta- 
tion an'  go  off  at  once  if  we  could  agree  on  what 
was  fair  in  a  settlement,  he  'llowed  I  wasn't  far 
from  right,  and  said  he'd  act  liberally.  Then  he 
asked  me  how  much  I  thought  he  owed  me,  and 
I  put  it  pretty  high,  'cause,  as  I  said,  I  was  toler- 
able sure  all  this  mischief  hadn't  been  done  to 
me  and  he  not  knowin'  nothin'  of  it,  and  then  take 
it  so  cool  when  I  tole  him  on't.  So,  I  said  I 
reckoned  about  six  hundred  dollars.  He  said  my 
crops  and  cattle  both  wasn't  wuth  that,  but  he 
wouldn't  make  no  words  with  me  over  it ;  but  if 
I'd  go  off  and  leave  the  State  and  take  Allie 
with  me,  and  not  come  back,  he'd  give  me  eight 
hundred.  I  agreed  to  the  terms,  and  we  start  to- 
morrow morning,  airly." 

"So,"  said  I,  ''you  have  not  only  let  these 
tyrants  run  you  out  of  the  State,  but  have  prom- 
ised that  Allie  shall  not  return  to  it !" 

"  Not  while  she  is  under  my  control  Mr.  Charles. 
Of  course,  I'm  not  responsible  for  her  afterwards. 
Though,  if  you  and  she  both'U  take  my  advice, 
you'll  keep  as  far  from  here  as  a  fox  from  a 
steel  trap  if  he  knows  its  whereabouts.  They 
may  get  over  it  with  you,  though  I  doubt  it ;  but 


84  JOHN  EAX. 

there'll   never    be  any   peace    for  her  here,    no- 
how." 

"Yes,  there  will,  Mr.  Bain,"  said  I.  "I  will 
make  it,  and  she  shall  come  and  enjoy  it.  They 
cannot  drive  me  out.  I'll  fight  them  foot  to  foot, 
and  hand  to  hand." 

"  But  I  hear  you  are  cut  off — disinherited,"  said 
he. 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  said  I,  feeling  for  the  first 
time  what  the  fact  portended.  "  Yes,"  said  I 
bitterly,  "  I  am  almost  as  poor  now  as  AUie  was 
when  I  offered  her  my  love.  If  she  chooses  to 
throw  me  off  on  that  account,  well  and  good.  If 
it  was  Charles  De  Jeunette's  money  she  accepted 
and  not  himself,  I  shall  know  it  now." 

"  My  Allie  ain't  one  of  that  sort,  Mr.  Charles," 
said  the  old  man  proudly. 

"  No,  I  am  sure  she  is  not,"  I  answered ;  "  and 
as  for  the  disinheritance,  who  cares  for  it?  I  am 
not  one  of  the  De  Jeunettes  who  can  do  nothing 
for  themselVes.  I  have  a  good  practice  at  the 
bar — enough  for  us  to  live  on  comfortably  until 
I  can  make  more." 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man  thoughtfully;  "but 
you  must  remember  that  you  gained  that  because 
you  were  a  De  Jeunette." 


MOVEMENT  85 

"  True,'*  said  I  defiantly,  "  and  I  will  hold  it 
because  I  am  a  De  Jeunette,  as  strong  at  the  bar 
as  they  in  their  broad  acres  and  hundreds  of 
slaves.  They  cannot  put  me  down,  as  you  will 
see. 

"  Well,  I  hope  not,  Mr.  Charles;  I  'spects  your 
love  for  our  AlHe  has  brought  trouble  to  you  as 
well  as  to  us.  I  told  the  Mistis  so  when  I  heard 
on't.  We're  mighty  sorry  for  it,  the  Mistis  and 
me,  but  we  don't  rightly  see  as  we  can  be  blamed, 
nohow.  We  hopes  things'll  come  right  somehow, 
and  you'll  be  happy  some  time." 

The  old  man  wept  as  he  held  out  his  hand  to 
say  farewell. 

"  We  shan't  forget  you,  Mr.  Charles,  never,  if 
we  be  a  long  way  off  an'  'mong  strangers  at  that. 
The  Mistis  an'  I'll  always  pray  for  ye  every  day, 
we  will,  Mr.  Charles." 

He  wrung  my  hand  and  would  have  departed, 
but  I  held  him  back  a  moment  and  said : 

''  Mr.  Bain,  the  year  that  I  was  to  wait  for  Allie 
is  not  over;  but  I  shall  meet  you  at  Maplewood 
when  the  term  closes,  and  bring  Allie  back  as  my 
wife,  unless  she  refuses  me." 

I  think  the  old  man  had  a  lingering  notion  that 
I  might  give  up  his  niece  under  all  the  pressure 


2>6 


JOHN  EAX, 


that  was  being  brought  to  bear  upon  me,  and  was 
surprised  at  this  declaration.  At  least  he  held 
my  hand  more  tightly,  and  said : 

*'  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Charles !  God  bless  you  ! 
You  is  true  if  all  the  rest  is  false !"  and  was  gone. 

His  parting  words  seemed  like  a  benediction.  I 
would  be  true.  I  had  almost  yielded  to  tempta- 
tion, and  was  now  beset  with  trial,  but  I  would 
be  true.  Allie  should  never  know  that  I  had  ever 
faltered.  I  was  ashamed  that  I  had.  I  would  be 
true  to  her  if  it  cost  me  a  life-long  fight — aye  !  if 
I  lost  the  fight,  and  lost  my  life  too ! 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

LOVER,     OR     FRIEND? 

JUST  off  from  the  road  that  led  from  Childsboro* 
to  Belmont  was  the  ruin  of  an  old  log  church, 
so  old  and  forgotten  that  there  was  no  memory  or 
record  of  its  earlier  existence  among  the  inhab- 
itants. Few,  indeed,  knew  of  it.  It  was  on  the 
land  of  my  uncle  Charles,  and,  as  I  said,  not  more 
than  a  hundred  yards  from  the  main  road ;  yet  I 
well  remember  his  look  of  surprise  when,  riding 
by  with  him  one  day,  I  referred  to  its  existence. 
He  could  only  be  satisfied  of  the  truth  of  my 
statement  by  going  himself  to  examine  it.  It 
stood  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  where  there  was  a 
little  plateau  of  level  ground,  and  not  far  from 
what  had  probably  been  a  spring,  though  now  a 
small  swamp  whose  densely  grown  outlet  was  be- 
tween the  church  and  the  highway.  Undoubtedly 
this  little  miry  branch,  which  ran  in  a  sort  of 
semicircle  forty  or  fifty  yards  from  the  church,  had 
been  the  means  of  securely  hiding  it  for  so  long  a 
time.     Back  of  it  the  hill  rose  sharply,  and  the 


88  Jt)HN  EAX. 

whole  region  in  the  rear  was  densely  wooded  for 
a  considerable  distance.  One  side  had  fallen  in, 
but  the  solid  logs  of  the  other  walls  seemed  to  re- 
sist time's  approaches  with  a  conscious  stubborn- 
ness. It  had  evidently  been  a  large  and  well- 
made  structure  for  its  day.  The  hearth  and  fire- 
place were  of  huge  pieces  of  soapstone,  which  must 
have  been  drawn  at  least  five  miles,  for  there  was 
no  quarry  nearer.  In  front  was  a  small  open  space 
shaded  by  several  giant  oaks,  which  may  have  been 
hitching-trees  when  the  church  was  in  use.  On 
one  of  the  trees  the  end  of  a  horseshoe  was  just 
visible  outside  the  bark,  which  had  gr#wn  over  it 
since  it  was  driven  into  the  trunk.  Back  of  the 
house  v/ere  a  few  graves — none  knew  whose,  and 
the  headstones  bore  no  record.  The  message 
they  brought  to  the  living  was  an  anonymous  one. 

This  had  been  a  favorite  haunt  with  Louie  and 
myself  when  we  were  children.  Many  a  day  had 
we  played  here  in  the  shade — she  listening  to  my 
wild  dreams,  and  interspersing  her  more  subtle 
thoughts  with  my  vague  aspirations.  It  was  here 
that  she  had  appointed  a  meeting. 

Her  note  had  said  ten  o'clock,  but  it  was  little 
more  than  nine  when  I  pushed  Sachem  through 
the  thick  growth  of  alders  which  skirted  the  miry 


LOVER,    OK   FRIEND.  89 

branch  in  front  and  galloped  up  the  dark  old 
avenue  which  had  once  been  the  wagon  road  from 
the  church  to  the  highway.  I  had  purposely  an- 
ticipated the  time,  for  the  recent  conduct  of  my 
relatives  had  been  such  as  to  inspire  me  with  sus- 
picion of  them  all,  even  Louie.  I  tied  Sachem  in 
a  pine  thicket,  a  hundred  yards  or  more  away,  and 
then  went  and  sat  down  in  the  shadow  of  the  old 
ruin. 

It  was  a  glorious  moonlight  night,  but  I  was 
hardly  in  a  mood  to  appreciate  its  beauty.  Hardly 
half  an  hour  had  passed  when  I  heard  the  rattling 
footsteps  of  a  pony  coming  down  the  stony  hill 
and  across  the  bottom  from  the  direction  of  Bel- 
mont. It  halted  a  moment  before  the  old  church 
path,  and  then  plunged  into  the  bushes,  splashed 
across  the  branch,  and  came  up  the  shaded  avenue 
and  into  the  circle  of  light  before  the  sinking 
structure.  It  was  Louie,  upon  her  favorite  pony, 
and  alone.  Still  I  did  not  reveal  myself.  The 
pony  pricked  up  his  ears,  looked  sharply  in  my 
direction,  snorted  loudly  once  or  twice,  and  then 
probably  recognizing  my  identity,  dipped  his  head 
and  began  grazing.  Louie  slipped  from  the  sad- 
dle, looked  at  her  watch  by  the  moonlight,  and 
then  flung  herself  at  the  foot  of  an  old  oak,  bury- 


90  JOHN  EAX, 

ing  her  face  in  her  hands.  She  was  soon  shaken 
with  sobs.  I  left  my  hiding-place,  went  to  where 
she  was  lying,  and,  bending  over  her,  whispered, 
*'  Cousin  Louie !" 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  threw  her  arms 
about  my  neck. 

''  O  Cousin  Charles  !'*  she  cried,  "  why  will  you  ? 
It  is  so  horrible  !"  And  her  slight  form  was  con- 
vulsed with  shuddering  sobs.  I  tried  to  soothe 
her  excitement,  but  in  vain.  She  clung  to  me  still 
more   closely,  and  exclaimed   between  her  sobs : 

"  They  will  kill  you,  Cousin  Charles !  They 
will  kill  you  !  Why  do  you  act  so  }  You  know 
how  we  all  love  you — how  /  love  you — and  now 
— now,  I  can  save  you  if  you  will  only  love  me  a 
little !  They  would  forgive  your  course  to  your 
mother,  though  it  was  horrible.  Cousin  Charles ; 
but  my  brothers  swear  they  will  kill  you  for  the 
way  you  have  treated  me." 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  she  continued  impetuously,  as  I 
tried  to  interrupt  her.  "  You  think  yourself  in 
honor  bound  to  marry  that  horrid  overseer's  girl, 
but  you  must  not.  Cousin  Charles!  You  do  not 
love  her !  You  cannot  love  her — not  as  you  do 
Louie !  O  Charles !  Charles !  have  I  not  been 
yours,  your  little  Louie,  ever  since  I  can  remem- 


LOVER,    OR  FRIEND.  9 1 

ber?  What  can  be  strong  enough  to  take  you 
away  from  me  ?  Am  I  not  your  wife  to-night  in 
all  but  name  ?  Who  but  one  who  loved  you  more 
than  all  the  world  beside  would  have  come  here 
to  warn  you  of  your  danger  and  save  you  from  it  ? 
Oh  I  say  that  you  will  let  that  horrid  creature  go, 
and  make  me  and  all  our  people  happy  !  Say  you 
do  not  love  her,  that  you  will  not  marry  her ! 
Pray,  pray  do !" 

She  slid  from  my  arms  and  knelt  before  me, 
clasping  my  knees.  The  moonlight  poured  upon 
her  tear-stained  face. 

"  Hush,  hush,  Louie,"  I  cried;  "you  must  not 
— you  shall  not  speak  thus  to  me !" 

"  But  you  will  not  marry  that — that  woman. 
You  do  not  love  her  ?"  she  cried  pleadingly. 

**  I  must,  I  do,"  I  said  firmly.  ''  I  am  bound  to 
her  by  every  consideration  of  honor — by  every 
pledge — short  of  marr«iage  itself.  You  would  not 
have  me  act  dishonorably,  Louie  ?" 

''  But  have  you  not  promised  me  a  hundred 
times? 

*'  In  childish  sport,  Louie.  I  hardly  knew  that 
you  had  grown  to  womanhood  until  I  had  pledged 
my  word  to  Alice  Bain." 

•'  Do  not  speak  her  name !"  she  cried,  springing 


92  JOHN  EAX, 

to  her  feet  and  thrusting  her  fingers  in  her  ears. 
**  I  hate  her !  You  would  break  faith  with  me, 
with  your  mother  who  is  dead — who  died  of  sor- 
row for  your  shame — for  this  overseer's  brat !" 

"Louie!  Cousin  Louie !" 

"  Bah  !  don't  call  me  Cousin  Louie — I  hate  you ! 
You  could  lie  to  me  year  after  year,  but  your 
word  to  this  mean,  low  thing  is  sacred  !" 

** Cousin  Louie!"  I  exclaimed,  reaching  forth 
to  take  her  arms. 

*'  Do  not  touch  me  !"  she  almost  shrieked,  as  I 
caught  her  left  arm.  ''  Let  me  go !"  she  cried, 
struggling  wildly.  Then  she  raised  her  right  hand 
and  I  heard  her  riding-whip  hiss  through  the  air, 
and  felt  the  raw-hide  cut  into  my  cheek.  She 
sprang  upon  her  pony  and  dashed  off.  I  sat  down 
upon  the  broad  stepping-stone  and  rested  my  head 
upon  my  hands.  The  blood  trickled  through  my 
fingers.  How  long  I  sat  there  buried  in  distress- 
ing thoughts  I  do  not  know.  I  remember  hear- 
ing the  pony  dash  across  the  bridge,  and  Sachem 
whinnying  after  him.  The  next  thing  that  at- 
tracted my  attention  was  Louie  dashing  again  into 
the  circle  of  light  that  was  around  me,  leaping 
from  her  pony  and  falling  upon  her  knees  before 
me  as  she  cried  : 


LOVER,    OR  FRIEND.  93 

"  Forgive  me,  Cousin  Charles  !  Forgive  me  ! 
I  did  not  mean  it,  but  I  do  love  you  so  that  I  was 
mad — yes,  mad — wild  with  rage.  Say  you  forgive 
me,  Cousin  Charles." 

I  threw  my  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her,  as  I 
again  and  again  assured  her  of  a  brotherly  love, 
no  less  true  than  that  other  love  I  had  given  to 
her  who  was  to  be  my  wife. 

Then  as  she  sobbed  upon  my  breast  I  told  her 
the  whole  story  of  my  love  for  Alice  Bain,  how 
it  had  grown  and  ripened,  and  how  more  than 
worthy  she  was  of  it.  When  she  had  heard  all, 
she  lay  quiet  in  my  arms  awhile  ;  then,  raising  her 
head,  she  put  back  her  dark  locks  from  her  pale 
face,  and  said  r 

"  You  are  right.  Cousin  Charles.  I  have  been 
weak;  but  you  have  not  done  wrong.  I  cannot 
help  loving  you  ;  but  you  are  not  to  be  blamed 
for  not  loving  me — at  least,  not  as  much  as  I  wish 
you  could,  for  you  must  always  love  me  a  little,  a 
very  little,  will  you  not  ?"  she  asked,  as  the  tears 
flowed  piteously.  I  soothed  her  as  best  I  could, 
and  then  she  continued :  "  But  I  came  back  to  tell 
you  that  you  must  go  away.  Do  not  go  to  Childs- 
boro'  again.  My  brothers  are  there  after  you,  and 
will  surely  kill  you  if  you  are  found.     I  know  you 


94  JOHN  EAX. 

are  brave,  but  so  are  they,  and  strong  and  active 
as  well  as  you  ;  and  they  are  four,  while  you  are 
but  one.  Our  cousins  from  Highmont  and  some 
others  are  there  too  !  Go  away  at  once  by  some 
country  road  till  you  take  the  stage  for  the  North. 
Promise  me  that  you  will  do  this!" 
I  gave  the  promise,  and  she  went  on : 
"  I  am  to  be  the  heir  of  Beaumont,  you  know, 
Cousin  Charles.  I  thought  when  I  agreed  to  it  at 
first  that  you  would  finally  come  to  yield  to  the 
conditions.  Since  you  cannot,  remember  that 
your  children  shall  have  it  unimpaired  whenever 
they  shall  ask  it.  I  shall  hold  it  always  in  trust 
for  them." 

With  a  last  tearful  embrace  I  placed  the  noble, 
impulsive  girl  upon  her  pony,  and  listened  to  the 
sound  of  his  footsteps  as  he  bore  her  homeward. 


CHAPTER   IX. 


BROUGHT    TO    A    FOCUS. 


A  S  I  had  determined,  I  met  Alec  Bain  and 
-^^  his  wife  at  Maplewood,  which  was  the  name 
of  the  seminary  that  AUie  was  attending,  some- 
what before  the  time  Hmited,  and  impetuously 
insisted  on  immediate  marriage.  She,  poor  timid 
dove,  when  she  had  heard  as  much  as  they  were 
able  and  I  saw  fit  to  tell  her  of  the  difficulties  at 
home,  tearfully  endeavored  to  persuade  me  to  one 
of  two  courses :  either  to  delay  our  marriage  for 
another  year,  or  to  go  North  or  West  and  begin 
in  some  young  center  of  life  and  progress  where 
men  were  esteemed  for  themselves  and  not  for 
their  ancestry.  Of  course  I  would  not  listen  to 
her  pleadings ;  her  apprehensions  only  made  me 
the  more  determined  to  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 
and  conquer  my  family  in  the  seats  of  their  pride. 
Of  course,  too,  she  yielded.  No,  that  is  not  the 
proper  term,  since  it  implies  opposition,  which 
she  could  not  offer  to  my  will  or  wishes,  I  mean 
that  she  gave  up  her  entreaty,  ceased  endeavor- 


96  JOHN  EAX. 

ing  to  persuade  me  to  use  my  reason,  and  pre- 
pared herself  quietly  and  cheerfully  to  abide  the 
results  of  my  headstrong  folly.  So  one  pleasant 
morning  we  were  married  there  among  strangers, 
and  bidding  good-by  to  Alice's  kind  foster-parents, 
we  started  out  upon  a  long  and  happy  wedding- 
tour.  What  I  enjoyed  as  I  watched  her  gratifica- 
tion during  those  halcyon  months,  it  is  needless 
to  say.  The  happiest  days  must  end,  however, 
and  I  had  determined  to  be  at  home  for  court, 
which  came  in  the  middle  of  October.  So  we 
watched  the  northern  forest  glow  and  fade,  and 
in  the  hazy  Indian  summer,  when  the  leaves  on 
our  native  hills  were  ripening  at  leisure  to  the 
hazel  brown  which  the  oak  puts  on  before  winter, 
and  the  gums  and  poplars  were  flaming  out  the 
gaudy  defiance  which  they  flaunt  in  the  face  of 
death,  we  came  to  our  home.  So  we  said  as  day 
by  day  we  drew  nearer,  each  with  an  apprehen- 
sion we  would  not  breathe  to  the  other.  At  last 
we  reached  Childsboro'. 

We  arrived  on  Saturday,  and  took  lodgings  at 
the  only  hotel.  It  rained  on  Sunday,  and  we 
scarcely  left  our  rooms.  The  court  sat  on  Mon- 
day week,  so  that  I  had  but  Httle  time  to  prepare 
my  cases  for  the  fall  term.      I  was  accordingly 


BROUGHT   TO   A   FOCUS.  97 

early  at  my  office  on  Monday,  awaiting  my  cli- 
ents. The  first  man  to  enter  my  office  that 
morning  was  Mr.  Rolf,  who  had  been  my  former 
partner. 

"  So  you  are  back,  Mr.  De  Jeunette,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answered  gayly.  "  I  have  had  my 
play,  and  have  now  come  back  to  work." 

"  So  I  see,"  he  rejoined  moodily.  He  sat 
awhile,  drumming  on  the  table  with  a  troubled 
look  upon  his  face.  Then  he  got  up  and  closed^ 
the  door,  came  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  before 
me,  and  said  earnestly: 

''  Mr.  De  Jeunette,  have  I  proved  myself  suffi- 
ciently your  friend  to  speak  freely  to  you  ?" 

I  hastened  to  assure  him  that  I  was  not  only 
willing,  but  anxious  that  he  should  do  so. 

''Then  allow  me  to  say,  sir,  that  the  best  thing 
you  can  do  is  to  close  your  office,  come  to  my 
house,  keep  yourself  out  of  sight  until  nightfall, 
and  then  leave  the  State !" 

"■  And  why,  Mr.  Rolf,  should  I  take  so  extraor- 
dinary a  course  ?" 

''It  is  useless  to  beat  about  the  bush  in  this 
matter.  Your  relatives  are  greatly  exasperated 
over  the  unfortunate  course  you  have  adopted, 
and  its  still  more  unfortunate  results,"  he  said. 


98  JOHN  EAX. 

"  I  have  only  done  what  my  conscience  and 
manhood  approved,  and  whatever  may  have  been 
the  result  of  my  course,  it  is  due  not  to  its  impro- 
priety, but  to  the  insatiate  pride  of  my  family." 

*'  I  did  not  speak  of  your  acts  as  wrong,  nor  of 
their  results  as  intended  by  you  ;  but  certainly 
the  death  of  both  your  parents,  following  so 
closely  upon  a  knowledge  of  your  course,  is  suffi- 
cient to  justify  me  in  terming  both,  under  the 
circumstances,  unfortunate." 

"  My  parents  !  You  do  not  mean,  Mr.  Rolf, 
that  my  father  is  dead  !" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  ''  He  died  soon  after  the 
news  of  your  marriage  reached  us." 

The  people  I  had  met  had  not  spoken  of  this 
event,  probably  supposing  me  to  be  aware  of  it, 
while  my  family  would  have  strictly  refrained 
from  all  communication  with  me,  even  if  any  one 
of  them  had  known  my  address  since  my  marriage. 

''You  must  see,  Mr.  De  Jeunette,  that  this  fact 
will  add  greatly  to  the  hostility  with  which  you 
were  already  regarded  by  your  kin.  Believe  me, 
your  life  is  in  constant  danger  while  you  remain 
here." 

^'  I  am  not  a  coward,"  I  answered,  "  to  be  driven 
off   by  the  threats   of  a   few   hot-blooded    roys- 


BROUGHT   TO  A   FOCUS.  99 

terers.  I  have  done  only  what  I  had  a  right 
to  do,  and  have  done  it  honorably,  and  I  will 
not  be  bullied  on  account  of  it  by  all  the  De 
Jeunettes  on  earth.  They  know  me,  and  they 
will  think  twice  before  they  attempt  personal  vio- 
lence." 

"  They  are  as  hot-headed  as  you  are  now  prov- 
ing yourself  to  be,"  said  Mr.  Rolf,  "  and  as  brave. 
Now,  what  is  the  result  if  you  stay  here  ?  You 
know  they  will  forget  or  forgive  nothing  you  have 
done,  nor  any  evil  which  they  may  fancy  to  have 
grown  out  of  it.  The  consequence  is  that  sooner 
or  later  there  must  be  a  personal  encounter. 
You  must  kill  or  be  killed — perhaps  both.  In 
any  event,  you  gain  nothing  but  the  satisfaction 
— if  such  it  be — of  dying  at  the  hands  of  your 
own  kindred  or  staining  yours  with  their  blood. 
Should  you  die,  you  leave  your  young  wife  un- 
provided for  and  at  their  mercy,  and  if  you 
survive  you  must  either  leave  them  or  continue 
on  here  with  no  advantage,  but  every  disad- 
vantage against  you.  I  admit  your  right  to 
do  as  you  intimate,  but  no  one  having  any  in- 
terest in  your  life  or  prospects  could  approve  its 
policy." 

I  had  not  looked  at  it  exactly  in  that  light,  and 


lOO  JOHN  EAX. 

I  could  but  admit  that  there  was  force  in  the  view 
which  he  took  of  my  situation. 

Continuing,  he  said,  "You  are  a  young  man 
without  means,  except  your  profession,  and  with 
the  hostility  of  at  least  the  most  powerful  con- 
nection in  this  entire  section  arrayed  against  you. 
Do  you  not  see  how  much  more  the  same  effort 
would  yield  you  elsewhere?  This  is  quite  ig- 
noring the  almost  inevitable  occurrence  of  one 
or  more  disgraceful  family  brawls,  and  the  very 
great  probability  of  a  violent  death.  Now  against 
this  you  can  only  put  the  gratification  of  having 
your  own  way.  Besides,  let  me  tell  you  what  I 
believe  is  God's  truth.  To  a  young  man  with- 
out means  or  family  to  help  him  forward  in  the 
profession,  the  West  or  Northwest  offers  far 
greater  advantages  and  a  thousandfold  more 
chances  of  success  than  can  be  found  here." 

Well,  the  result  of  our  conversation  was  that  I 
concluded  to  adopt  his  advice  in  part  and  reject 
the  rest — the  most  important,  as  I  well  knew  he 
regarded  it.  I  would  leave  Childsboro',  but  not 
like  a  thief  or  a  coward,  driven  away  by  my  blus- 
tering cousins,  but  honestly  and  openly.  After 
the  court,  when  my  business  could  be  straightened 
up  and  settled,  I  would  leave.     Till  then  any  De 


BROUGHT   TO  A   FOCUS.  lOI 

Jeunette  or  any  one  else  who  wanted  me  might 
know  where  to  find  me. 

The  old  man  sighed  when  he  heard  my  de- 
termination, but  knew  me  too  well  to  attempt  to 
change  it  further. 

''  I  only  hope  you  may  not  regret  having  made 
it,"  he  said  solemnly,  as  he  put  on  his  hat  and 
went  out. 

A  few  moments  after  the  Sheriff  of  the  county 
entered.  His  manner  seemed  somewhat  con- 
strained, I  thought.  After  a  short  time  he  said, 
drawing  a  paper  from  his  pocket, 

"  Mr.  De  Jeunette,  I  have  a  little  matter  here 
which  must  be  attended  to." 

"What  is  that?"  I  asked. 

"A  Ca.  Sa.,''  ^  he  replied. 

"Against  whom?"  I  asked,  thinking  that  some 
client  had  been  Ca.  Sa-td  during  my  absence,  and 
required  my  aid. 

"Against  yourself," 

"  Against  me  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  For  what  amount?" 


*  Capias  ad  satisfaciendum :  a  writ  requiring  the  defendant  to 
be  taken  and  held  to  bail  for  the  payment  of  a  debt. 


102  JOHN  EAX. 

"  Something  the  rise  of  nine  thousand  dollars, 
principal  money,  and  some  interest,  I  don't  know 
how  much,"  he  replied. 

I  saw  at  once  my  condition  and  realized  its 
horror.  The  Ca.  Sa.  regarded  not  the  condition 
or  ability  of  the  debtor.  There  were  but  three 
alternatives — the  money,  good  security  for  .the 
debt,  or  the  body  of  the  debtor.  I  did  not  have 
the  first,  and  felt  that  I  could  not  hope  to  obtain 
security  for  so  large  a  sum.  Indeed,  when  I  came 
to  look  my  situation  squarely  in  the  face,  I  was 
satisfied  that  I  could  not  give  security  for  a  tithe 
of  that  sum.    There  was  but  one  way  left — the  jail. 

I  wrote  a  brief  note  to  Alice,  telling  her  not  to 
be  alarmed  at  my  absence,  not  to  trouble  herself 
about  anything  that  might  happen,  and  above  all 
not  to  seek  me  until  I  should  send  her  word  ex- 
plaining all  that  might  seem  surprising. 

Then  I  took  up  my  hat  and  said : 

*'  Well,  Mr.  Sheriff,  I  will  go  with  you.'* 

"  Do  you  not  wish  to  give  security?" 

"You  know  I  cannot.". 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  go  by  and  see  youf 
wife  ?" 

"  No.  Give  her  that,  please,"  handing  him  the 
note  which  I  had  just  written. 


BROUGHT   TO   A    FOCUS.  IO3 

So  I  locked  my  office-door,  little  thinking  how 
or  when  I  should  enter  it  again,  and  went  along 
the  street  with  the  Sheriff,  until  we  found  the 
sleepy  jailer,  who  looked  up  at  me  with  all  the  sur- 
prise of  which  his  slothful  nature  was  capable,  as 
he  took  down  the  great  key  from  a  nail  above  the 
head  of  his  bed  and  accompanied  us  to  the  jail. 
Poor  man,  it  was  some  relief  to  him  at  any  rate.  It 
magnified  his  importance  and  gave  him  something 
to  do  ;  for  the  position  of  jailer  was  very  nearly  a 
sinecure  in  Childsboro' — thanks  to  the  whipping- 
post, the  stocks,  and  the  branding- iron,  which 
were  the  ordinary  instruments  of  punishment  and 
torture.  At  this  time  the  institution  was  empty, 
and  had  been  for  some  weeks,  as  he  informed 
me  during  one  of  his  frequent  visits  through  the 
day. 

Arrived  at  the  jail,  I  was  shown  to  the  debtor's 
apartment,  and  the  Sheriff,  after  begging  my 
pardon  for  the  performance  of  his  duty,  and 
directing  his  subordinate,  in  emphatic  language, 
to  attend  to  my  wishes  and  provide  for  my  com- 
fort, withdrew. 

The  garrulous  deputy  filled  the  water-bucket, 
shook  up  the  infested-looking  bed,  and  inquired  as 
to  my  wishes  in  regard  to  dinner.      Seeing  that  I 


I04  JOHN  EAX. 

was  inclined  to  take  a  somewhat  melancholy  view 
of  the  situation,  he  took  up  the  role  of  comforter, 
and  endeavored  to  beguile  my  loneliness  with  an 
account  of  some  of  my  predecessors  in  those 
quarters. 

*'  There  was  Mike  Sherwood,  now ;  he  staid 
here  nigh  on  to  fifteen  year.  He  learned  shoe- 
making,  or  knew  it  afore  he  came,  I  disremember 
which,  an'  used  to  follow  the  trade  here.  That 
was  afore  my  day,  but  I've  heard  my  father  tell 
on't  often.     He  was   jailer  in  his   time    many  a  ,i 

year,  perhaps  all  the  time  old  Sherwood  was  in 
here.  Ther  was  a  Jedge  staid  here  a  smart  bit,  r 
too.  Yes,  a  Jedge !"  answering  my  look  of  sur- 
prise, for  I  could  not  help  taking  a  sort  of  interest 
in  those  tales  of  my  forerunners  in  misery. 
"  What !  Never  heard  of  it  ?  Why,  I  'sposed 
everybody  knew  that.  Yes,  a  Jedge  of  the 
Superior  Court  of  Law  and  Ekkity,  ez  the  crier 
says  when  he  calls  it  on.  YouVe  heard  of  him 
often  enough,  if  not  of  his  bein'  here.  Jedge 
Morphy,  ye  know,  used  to  live  up  on  the  Ala^ 
manee.  He  got  in  debt  some  way — I  never 
knowed  how — gamblin'  or  bettin',  I  suppose,  for 
he  had  a  mighty  fine  plantation,  and  might  hev 
lived  without  doin'  anything  if  he  had   only  let 


BROUGHT   TO  A   FOCUS.  IO5 

sech  things  alone.  He  was  a  mighty  fine  man. 
I  remember  him  well,  and  everybody  pitied  him, 
when  he  got  down,  more'n  any  one  I  ever  saw.  I 
do  believe  the  people  would  hev  paid  his  debts 
for  to  get  him  out.  I'm  not  sure  but  they  did 
jes'  chip  in  and  do  it  finally.  The  queerest  thing 
about  it  all  was,  that  his  biggest  creditor  became 
his  successor  in  office.  But  thar's  quare  things 
in  this  world — quare  things.  Wal,  I  s'pose  I'm 
worryin'  ye,  so  I'll  take  myself  off.  Don't  be 
downhearted.  Ye'li  either  get  out  soon,  or  it'll 
come  to  seem  right  home-like  tu  ye,  bein*  here. 
Good-by." 

He  locked  the  huge  door,  and  I  was  alone  in 
my  dungeon,  with  a  bitter  past  and  a  hopeless 
future.  He  came  again  at  noon  and  brought  my 
dinner  and  also  a  note  from  AHce,  and  a  package. 
The  note  ran  thus:  -^ 

"Dearest: 

"  I  have  learned  of  your  new  trouble,  but  do 
not  understand  its  cause — only  that  you  are  im- 
prisoned for  debt ;  but  I  know  it  will  all  be  right, 
and  that  soon.  I  have  been  praying  for  you — 
that  you  might  not  lose  heart  and  hope,  nor  be 
cast  down  by  what  seems  so  dreadful.     Remem- 


I06  JOHN  EAX. 

ber  that  while  you  are  hopeful  and  brave  your  lit- 
tle AUie  will  not  despair.  I  do  not  see  how  I  can 
help  you  now  except  by  praying  for  you  ;  but  I 
will  try — oh !  so  hard.  I  send  you  my  Bible — 
the  only  dowry  I  brought  you — and  pray  that  its 
quaintness,  if  not  my  love,  may  lead  you  to  find 
in  its  pages  treasures  which  earth  can  neither  give 
nor  take  away.  After  you,  my  beloved,  this 
dear  old  volume  is  the  chiefest  treasure  of  my 
life.  I  never  think  the  Gospel  is  so  sweet  in  any 
other  guise.  I  learned  to  pick  it  out  of  the  old 
text  when  but  a  child.  Hoping  it  may  comfort 
you  as  it  has  often  been  blessed  to  me,  I  remain, 
with  countless  prayers, 

"Your  devoted 

"Allie." 

The  book  which  was  thus  sent  was  an  old  Eng- 
lish Bible  of  one  of  the  earliest  editions  ever 
printed.  It  was  no  doubt  a  very  choice  edition, 
and  regarded  as  a  wonderful  work  of  art  in  its 
day.  And  indeed  some  of  its  perfections  have 
never  been  excelled.  No  printer  of  our  modern 
days  could  print  those  curious  capitals  and  book- 
headings  in  a  red  fairer  or  half  so  enduring,  or 
with  a  more  perfect  register. 


BROUGHT    TO  A    FOCUS.  I07 

It  was  bound,  too,  with  the  half-raw  parchment 
which  the  binders  of  those  old  days  knew  so  well 
how  to  manage,  that  closed  over  and  protected 
the  carefully-figured  edges  of  the  old  volume. 
Poor  child  !  I  could  but  think,  as  I  examined  the 
ancient  book,  that  the  treasure  she  had  probably 
picked  up  at  some  old  bookstall  must  at  some 
time  have  cost  the  possessor  a  fortune,  though 
there  seemed  no  chance  of  its  present  owner  find- 
ing one  in  it. 

This  volume  was  enclosed  in  a  soft  case  of  pur- 
ple velvet,  old  and  much  worn  in  places,  but  re- 
taining its  richness  and  depth  of  color  in  others. 
It  had  been  embroidered  by  deft  hands,  and  in 
the  middle  of  one  side,  in  letters  like  those  within, 
was  the  name  *'  Nellie,"  faded,  yet  distinct  ;  while 
in  one  corner,  in  a  compartment,  as  it  were,  of  the 
embroider)^,  in  clear  letters  and  undimmed  colors, 
evidently  wrought  by  her  own  hand,  was  the 
name  ''  Allie." 

I  had  made  these  discoveries  and  looked 
through  the  volume,  reading  here  and  there  a  pas- 
sage which  seemed  wonderfully  fresh  and  capti- 
vating in  its  quaint  habit,  when,  turning  back  to 
the  beginning  of  the  book,  my  eye  rested  on  the 
name  JoJm  Eax. 


I08  JOHN  FAX. 

It  was  the  signature  of  an  inscription  on  the 
first  blank  page  in  the  book, 


"  To  my  beloved  daughter  Nell, 

"John  Eax, 


>> 


and  written  under  it  was  the  name  of  one  of  those 
English  cities  where  busy  hammers  have  forged 

miracles  of  progress,  and  built  up  a  metropolis 
that  queens  it  in  the  world  of  mechanic  art  as 
easily  as  Athens  once  ruled  in  the  domain  of  the 
beautiful. 


CHAPTER  X. 


A    TROUBLED    NIGHT. 


A  S  the  sun  went  down  and  darkness  came  upon 
-^  -^  me,  I  forgot  for  a  time,  in  the  terrible  de- 
pression of  soHtary  confinement,  the  puzzle  of  the 
dayh'ght  over  this  haunting  name,  with  which  my 
story  opened.  The  misfortunes  which  my  situa- 
tion indicated  pressed  upon  my  mind,  and  I  ran 
over  a  thousand  times  the  possibiHties  of  the  past 
and  the  future. 

I  was  in  custody  upon  various  writs  of  Ca,  Sa., 
issued  at  the  instance  of  Bill  Letlow,  a  noted  bill- 
shaver  of  the  region,  who  held  the  notes  upon 
which  I  was  security  for  Fred  Wiley,  as  well  as 
some  that  I  had  given  myself.  I  had  always 
thought  Fred  would  pay  those  which  I  had  incur- 
red in  his  behalf,  or,  if  not,  that  his  father  would. 
At  all  events,  I  had  received  so  many  favors  from 
his  father  that  I  could  not  refuse  the  son,  and 
with  Beaumont  and  the  De  Jeunette  family  and 
fortune  behind  me,  the  amount  was  a  mere  baga- 
telle.    I  was  satisfied  that  a  large  part  of  this  in- 


I  lO  JOHN  EAX. 

debtedness  was  incurred  at  the  gaming-table,  but 
was  unable  to  prove  the  fact,  as  Fred  had  gone  to 
parts  unknown  some  time  before  my  arrest.  His 
father,  I  knew,  was  entirely  unable,  because  of 
recent  losses,  to  discharge  these  debts,  and  Bill 
Letlow  had  the  reputation  of  never  loosening  his 
grip  while  a  shred  of  property  or  pound  of  flesh 
was  in  his  reach. 

Under  these  circumstances  I  could  see  but  one 
'  way  out  of  my  present  confinement,  and  that  was 
by  the  Insolvent  Debtor's  oath — a  proceeding 
which  involved  at  least  a  month's  imprisonment, 
and  might  perhaps,  by  a  captious  creditor,  be 
made  to  require  a  year.  Besides,  it  was  attended 
by  an  amount  of  disgrace  that  can  scarcely  be  re- 
alized in  our  later  days  of  wide-spread  bankruptcy 
and  financial  dishonor.  I  could  only  look  forward 
to  a  ruined  life — a  life  of  penury  and  dishonor  for 
my  wife  and  our  children.  How  bitterly,  did  I 
regret  my  obstinate  refusal  to  listen  to  my  young 
wife's  entreaties  not  to  return  to  Childsboro*. 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock  when  I  was  inter- 
rupted in  these  melancholy  musings  by  the 
entrance  of  Dick  Birney,  the  Sheriff,  and  his 
jailer.  They  looked  around  the  room  with  some 
care,  and  seemed  anxious,  as    I    thought,  about 


A    TROUBLED  NIGHT.  Ill 

something  of  importance.  At  length  the  Sheriff 
spoke : 

*'  Have  you  any  arms  about  you,  Mr.  De  Jeu- 
nette?"  he  asked. 

So  they  had  come  to  search  me  and  prevent  my 
escape.  Indeed  I  had  fallen  very  low  for  a  De 
Jeunette. 

*'I  beg  pardon,"  I  said,  seemingly  indifferent. 
"  I  am  so  little  used  to  this  sort  of  thing  that  I 
was  not  aware  that  it  was  necessary  for  a  gentle- 
man to  surrender  his  pocket-knife  and  toothpick 
when  imprisoned  for  debt.  I  am  very  sorry  to 
have  put  you  to  this  trouble,  though  I  could  have 
assured  you  that  it  was  unnecessary.  I  had  no 
intention  of  breaking  out." 

'^  Pshaw!"  said  Dick.  "You  have  known  me 
long  enough,  Charley  De  Jeunette,  not  to  take 
me  for  a  fool.  I  did  not  come  here  to  disarm 
you,  but  to  inquire  if  you  are  armed." 

Owing  to  the  threats  of  my  cousins,  I  had  pre- 
pared  myself  for  an  encounter  before  leaving  the 
hotel  that  morning,  and  still  had  my  arms  about 
me.     So  I  answered  in  some  surprise : 

**  I  am — fully,"  and  taking  a  revolver  from  my 
pocket  I  laid  it  upon  the  table  by  him. 

"  All   right,  all    right,"  said   he,  pushing   it   to- 


112  JOHN  E AX, 

wards  me.  "  Keep  it ,  you  are  more  likely  to 
need  it  than  I.  And  by  the  way,  Tom  and  I  have 
concluded  to  stay  down  here  to-night  and  keep 
you  company.  Not  wishing  to  trouble  you,  we 
shall  sleep  in  the  passage." 

"  Dick  Birney,"  said  I,  "  you  surely  do  not 
expect  me  to  escape,  that  you  are  taking  all  this 
precaution." 

*'I  do  not  fear  an  escape,  but  a  rescue,"  he 
replied  seriously.  ^*  You  know  your  family  have 
a    bad    name    for   helping    each    other    out   of 

limbo." 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid  of  my  family  tak- 
ing any  such  trouble  on  my  account,"  said  I, 
smiling. 

"  Not  as  a  favor,  I  am  aware,  Mr.  Charles ;  but 
love  is  not  the  only  passion  that  sometimes  un- 
locks prison-doors." 

"  My  God  !  Mr.  Birney.     You  don't  mean — " 

''  You  ought  to  know  why  your  family  would 
be  particularly  anxious  to  get  you  out  of  this 
place,"  he  interrupted. 

''  And  you—" 

"  I  am  going  to  resist.  No  man  or  set  of  men 
shall  ever  take  a  prisoner  from  my  hand  for  love 
or  hate  except  in  due  form  of  law.     I  said  that 


A    TROUBLED  NIGHT.  II3 

long  ago,  and  have  stuck  to  It  pretty  \v^ll  thus 
far.  Presuming  that  you  wouldn't  object  to  help- 
ing a  little  OH  such  an  occasion,  I  intended 
offering  you  arms  if  you  had  none.  I  do  not 
expect,  however,  to  need  your  aid,  nor  even  to 
be  compelled  to  fight ;  but  you  De  Jeunettes  are 
mighty  determined  men,  and  I  may  have  trouble. 
You  will  have  no  need  of  weapons,  however, 
until  after  Dick  Birney's  dead.  If  it  comes  to 
that,  you  may  be  in  tight  quarters." 

Birney  and  the  jailer  withdrew,  and  I  tried  to 
realize  the  full  horror  of  mv  situation.  To  add 
to  my  other  ills,  my  relatives  were  desirous  of 
taking  me  from  the  hands  of  the  law,  that  they 
might  lynch  me. 

Towards  midnight  I  heard  the  tramping  of 
many  feet  before  the  jail.  A  moment  after  and  a 
huge  stick  of  timber  was  borne  against  the  door, 
which  gave  way  before  it  like  a  reed. 

Then  I  heard  Dick  Birney's  voice  ring  out  clear 
and  strong: 

"  Gentlemen,  I  expected  this  visit,  and  am  pre- 
pared for  it.  Not  one  of  you  can  enter  that  door 
alive  without  my  permission.  Now,  what  are 
your  wishes?" 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  and  then  some- 


114  JOHN  E AX. 

thing  was  said  from  without.  I  did  not  catch  the 
words,  but  the  Sheriff  answered : 

"  He  is  in  the  custody  of  the  law,  and  no  man 
shall  take  him  out,  unless  he  passes  over  my  dead 
body,  or  pays  the  debt  for  which  he  was  arrest- 
ed." 

"How  much  is  the  debt?"  asked  a  voice,  pres- 
ently. 

"  About  ten  thousand,  interest  and  cost,"  was 
the  reply. 

"Who  holds  the  papers?" 

"Bill  Letlow." 

"  How  long  will  you  keep  him  if  the  debt  is 
not  paid,  Sheriff  ?" 

"  Till  he  rots,  unless  he  takes  the  insolvent's 
oath." 

"Ah,  bah!"  burst  in  a  voice  I  recognized  at 
once  as  that  of  one  of  my  cousins,  "  he'll  never 
do  that.  He's  a  De  Jeunette  if  he  is  a  scoundrel, 
and  as  proud  as  Lucifer.  He'll  never  swear 
out!" 

"  Dunno,"  said  the  Sheriff.  "  I'd  sooner  bet  on 
that  than  on  Bill  Letlow  loosing  his  hold." 

"  You're  right  there,  Sheriff.  The  jail  would 
tumble  in  before  that  could  happen." 

There  was  a  sort  of  half-silence  for  a  little  time. 


A    TROUBLED  NIGHT.  II5 

Those  outside  were  evidently  consulting.  Then 
the  voice  that  was  unknown  to  me,  probably  some 
tool  of  my  cousins',  called  out  again  : 

"  You  say.  Sheriff,  that  if  the  debts  were  paid 
off  you'd  let  him  go?" 

"  Of  course  I  would.  No  right  to  hold  him  a 
minute  after  that." 

*'  Would  an  order  from  Bill  Letlow  do  ?" 

*'  Yes,  if  the  costs  were  paid  too.  I  ain't  going 
to  risk  Letlow  for  them." 

"Well,  we're  going  to  have  the  man,  but  we 
don't  want  to  trouble  you,  if  we  can  help  it,  Mr. 
Sheriff.  Besides,  the  rascal's  debts  ought  to  be 
paid  for  the  sake  of  his  name.     Good-night !" 

"  Well,  they're  mighty  cool  about  it !"  said  the 
Sheriff,  putting  up  his  weapons,  as  they  moved 
away. 

Then  I  heard  them  shutting  and  temporarily 
fastening  the  door,  which  had  been  beaten  open, 
and  soon  after  their  loud  breathing  showed  me 
that  they  were  sound  asleep.  For  me,  I  could 
not  sleep.  My  brain  was  on  fire  with  wild  and 
desperate  thoughts.  I  could  see  no  light,  no 
hope.  The  future  was  as  dark  as  the  night  that 
was  around  me.  I  paced  back  and  forth  in  my 
cell  in  restless  agony.     Then  I  sat  down  by  the 


Il6  JOHN  FAX. 

table  and  rested  my  head  on  my  folded  arms. 
As  I  did  so  my  hand  touched  the  old  Bible  still 
lying  on  the  table  in  its  velvet  case,  and  the  name 
of  John  Eax  rose  in  my  mind.  My  weary  and 
confused  brain  seemed  to  seize  upon  it  at  once  as 
a  means  of  relief  from  its  terrible  strain.  Grad- 
ually, from  thinking  of  the  possibilities  of  the 
future  to  Alice  and  myself,  I  began  to  run  off 
into  conjectures  upon  the  personality  of  this 
myth  who  had  crossed  my  perturbed  conscious- 
ness with  such  a  persistent  idea  of  old  acquaint- 
anceship attached  to  him.  So  little  by  little  I 
forgot  my  woes,  and  became  absorbed  again  in  en- 
deavoring to  answer  the  seemingly  vain  question : 
"  Who  is — or  was — John  Eax  ?"  From  this 
speculation  I  passed  unconsciously  into  slumber, 
and  dreamed  of  John  Eax  and  Alice  and  myself 
in  strangely  connected  relations.  The  bluff  old 
Englishman  seemed  to  have  my  little  Alice  under 
special  care  and  to  be  offering  an  effectual  relief 
to  my  difficulties.  I  could  never  remember  the 
particulars  of  that  strange  dream,  but  it  left  so 
vivid  an  impression  on  my  mind  that  when  I 
awoke  it  was  with  that  feeling  of  relief  which 
confident  hope  brings  to  despair,  and  I  lay  down 
and  slept  soundly  until  morning. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

ESCAPE. 

T  T  was  with  surprise  that  I  found  myself,  on 
-■-  awakening  the  next  morning,  able  to  eat  the 
breakfast  that  was  brought  me  by  the  jailer,  and 
to  regard  the  future  with  so  little  of  gloomy 
apprehension.  I  sent  to  Alice  a  note  which  was 
really  hopeful,  telling  her  to  be  trustful  and  quiet ; 
that  all  would  be  right  eventually ;  that  her  me- 
mento had  been  more  comfort  to  me  than  she 
could  have  expected  ;  which,  indeed,  was  literally 
true,  but  not  in  the  sense  that  I  knew  she  would 
understand  it.  Yet  I  felt  no  compunctions  in 
regard  to  the  little  fraud  I  was  perpetrating  on 
her  credulity.  I  knew  she  would  consider  this 
and  the  whole  tone  of  my  letter  as  an  evidence 
that  I  had  found  a  religious  consolation  in  its 
pages.  She  had  engrafted  upon  her  tender, 
clinging  nature  all  the  stern,  harsh  creed  of  her 
Scottish  ancestry,  accompanied  by  their  clear  and 
vivid  idea  of  the  personal  indwelling  of  the  relig- 
ious principle — a  sort  of  sixth  sense — only  to  be 


Il8  JOHN  EAX. 

acquired  by  a  kind  of  complex  miracle.  Our  faith 
— that  of  the  De  Jeunettes — had  approximated 
more  nearly  to  a  matter-of-course  acceptance  of 
the  doctrines  of  Christianity,  without  any  especial 
consideration  of  its  application  or  personal  char- 
acter. I  had  never  thought  of  religion  as  a 
serious  business ;  and  I  knew  my  little  Allie, 
with  her  simple  faith,  had  made  my  religious 
apathy  a  subject  of  frequent  prayer,  almost  from 
the  first  moment  of  our  acquaintance.  I  knew 
she  would  take  my  language  as  indicating  an 
answer  to  her  petitions,  and  that  her  sweet  soul 
would  burst  out  into  a  quiet,  tearful  song  of 
adoration  and  gratitude  for  it.  I  could  but 
smile  sorrowfully  as  I  prepared  this  kindly  decep- 
tion ;  and  yet  the  dear  child's  book  had  given  me 
a  distraction  which  relieved  my  strained  mind 
from  a  tension  that  must  ere  long  have  led  to 
insanity  ;  I  had  not  been  in  the  mood  to  find  its 
deeper  treasures. 

Still  my  mind  was  full  of  John  Eax,  and  I  was 
determined  if  possible  to  ferret  out  the  particular 
manner  in  which  I  had  become  familiar  with  his 
name.  I  had  always  been  noted  for  methodical 
habits  in  my  studies  and  business,  and  I  therefore 
thought  it  probable  that  if  I  had  ever  known  any- 


ESCAPE.  119 

thing  worth  remembering  about  this  puzzling 
individuality,  memory,  dream,  or  whatever  it 
might  be,  that  I  would  be  able  to  find  a  note  of 
it  among  some  of  my  memoranda.  I  therefore 
requested  the  Sheriff  to  bring  from  my  office  my 
commonplace-book  of  correspondence.  In  this, 
it  had  been  my  custom  to  enter  a  minute  of  the 
writer's  name,  date,  and  substance  of  every  letter 
which  I  received.  I  sent  also  for  some  miscel- 
laneous commonplace-books  in  which  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  enter  matters  which  were  of  inter- 
est rather  than  value  in  my  professional  studies 
and  practice.  All  of  these  books  were  carefully 
indexed. 

Immediately  upon  their  arrival  I  sat  down  to  in- 
spect the  indexes.  One  after  another  I  ran  over 
them  in  vain.  The  name  of  John  Eax  had  cer- 
tainly not  been  signed  to  any  letter  which  I  had 
received,  nor  did  it  occupy  a  prominent  place  in 
any  of  the  memoranda  of  the  commonplace-books. 
It  was  probable,  then,  if  I  was  not  utterly  mis- 
taken, that  it  would  appear  as  an  item  in  some  of 
the  abstracts  of  the  letters  I  had  received.  I  set 
myself,  therefore,  to  reading  these  entries,  from 
the  last  backwards.  Page  after  page  I  read,  turn- 
ing them  hopefully  at  first,  I  knew  not  why,  and 


I20  JOHN  EAX. 

then  slower   and  slower,  reading   each    entry  in 
their  crowded  columns  carefully. 

It  was  well  toward  night,  when  I  had  quite  de- 
spaired, that  I  found  this  entry : 

"  Plummer  &  Osgood,  Solicitors, 
Temple  Street,  London, 
Want  heirs  of  John  Eax,  supposed  to  be  in  Amer- 
ica, if  there  are  any." 

It  was  in  a  commonplace-book  that  I  had  kept 
when  first  commencing  the  study  of  law,  and  was 
probably  made  from  some  advertisement  which 
had  met  my  eye.  It  had  been  indexed  under  the 
attorney's  name,  whence  the  difficulty  I  had  in 
finding  it.  I  had  evidently  made  the  entry  with 
the  vague,  boyish  anticipation  that  I  might  some 
time  have  need  for  the  address  in  regard  to  the 
matter.  It  must  have  been  a  very  indefinite  idea, 
for  even  now  that  I  had  found  the  entry  in  my 
own  hand,  I  could  recollect  nothing  in  regard  to 
my  object  or  motive  in  making  it,  nor  why  I  had 
been  led  to  take  any  notice  of  it  at  all. 

While  I  sat  thinking  over  this  matter,  I  was 
somewhat  surprised  by  the  entrance  of  the  Sheriff. 
I  noticed,  on  his  sitting  down  opposite  me  at  the 


ESCAPE.  I  2 1 

table,  that  he  seemed  not  a  little  excited  for  one 
of  his  somewhat  stolid  temperament. 

"  Mr.  De  Jeunette,"  he  said,  '*  you  believe  that 
I  am  your  friend  ?" 

*'  I  never  had  a  doubt  of  that,  Dick.  You  must 
not  feel  that  I  harbor  any  mahce  against  you  for 
doing  your  duty,"  I  replied. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  mean  that.  Of  course,  I  do  my 
duty,  or  try  to,  which  is  nearly  the  same ;  but  do 
you  trust  me  as  a  friend  ?" 

*'  Certainly  I  do." 

"  Would  you  do  whatever  I  might  advise  you  to 
do  for  your  own  interest,  without  asking  any  ques- 
tions?" 

I  looked  him  keenly  in  the  eye,  and  answered, 
"  I  think  I  would,  Dick." 

**  Very  well,  then.  You  will  break  out  of  jail 
to-night." 

"  Break  out  of  jail  ?    I  do  not  understand  you  !" 

*'  So  much  the  better.  You  have  agreed  to 
follow  my  advice  without  question.  Take  hold 
here." 

He  took  one  end  of  the  light  bedstead  and  I 
the  other,  and  lifted  it  out  from  the  wall. 

"There,"  continued  Dick,  pointing  to  a  place 
where  the  mortar  seemed  newer  than  any  other; 


122  JOHN  EAX. 

^'  that's  the  breaking-out  place.  There  have  been 
quite  a  number  of  escapes  from  this  room,  though 
nary  one  before  this  in  my  time.  In  fact,  I  don't 
beUeve  there  has  been  one  in  twenty  years  that 
somebody  didn't  know  it  afore  it  was  done.  That's 
where  Sherwood  is  said  to  have  got  out.  /  think 
he  went  through  the  door;  but  it's  a  convenient 
thing  for  any  one  else.  It  has  never  been  more 
than  half  built  up.  The  mortar  is  more  like  the 
daubing  of  a  log-house  than  a  cement  intended 
for  strength. 

''  Now,"  he  continued,  drawing  from  beneath 
his  coat  a  couple  of  large  files,  "here  are  the  tools. 
They  happen  to  be  the  best  I  could  chance  on  at 
the  minute,  and  one  way  and  another  will  answer 
very  well.  Take  out  all  but  the  outer  course  of 
brick  at  once,  and  pile  them  carefully  under  your 
bed  to  look  as  if  you  had  been  preparing  this 
thing.  Don't  let  the  jailer  have  any  suspicions 
when  he  comes  with  your  supper.  Keep  at  your 
book  there,  and  be  as  down-hearted  as  you  please. 
At  eight  o'clock  kick  out  the  last  course,  crawl 
out,  and  go  down  the  run  back  of  the  jail  till  you 
come  opposite  the  church-lot ;  there  turn  off  to 
the  right,  and  in  the  grove  back  of  Lanier's  you 
will  find   your  blood-bay,  Sachem,   ready  for  a 


ESCAPE.  123 

canter.  You  will  find  something  you  need  in 
your  saddle-bags.  Don't  let  the  grass  grow  under 
his  feet  until  you  get  on  the  train  for  the  North." 

"  But,  Alice  ?"  I  asked  anxiously.  *'  What  of 
her?" 

**  Alice  knows  all  about  it,  and  is  on  her  way  to 
Wilmington,  where  she  will  sail  for  New  York. 
You  see  I  ought  to  hold  a  grudge  against  you  for 
marrying  her,  for  I  had  been  casting  sheep's  eyes 
at  her  a  year  before  you  ever  saw  her.  I  don't, 
though ;  and  I  could  not  see  her  take  on  without 
helping  you,  if  I  could  do  it  safely,  which  I  think 
I  can.  Besides  that,  those  kin  of  yours  are  as 
murderous  and  revengeful  as  Comanches,  and  are 
bound  to  have  your  blood.  Now,  I've  no  notion 
of  having  you  killed  on  my  hands  just  for  having 
married  Alice  Bain,  though  if  I  thought  she  would 
ever  be  a  Bathsheba,  I  might  be  tempted  to 
make  you  my  Uriah,  eh  ?  But  there's  no  chance 
of  that,  so  she  has  gone  to  Wilmington  to-day  to 
throw  your  cousins  off  the  track.  It  may  not  do, 
however;  so  you  must  not  trifle  on  your  way. 
You  had  better  be  lively." 

''  But  you — how  will  this  affect  your  interest  ?" 
I  asked. 

'*  Oh,   hang   my   interest!"  said   he;    "besides, 


124  JOHN  EAX, 

you  promised  not  to  ask  any  questions.  But  I 
must  go  now.  Remember  and  keep  this  from 
Tom,  when  he  comes.  I  may  want  him  to  do 
some  swearing  for  me." 

"  God  bless  you,  Dick,"  said  I,  as  I  gave  him 
my  hand.  "  God  bless  you  for  what  you  are  do- 
ing.    Good-by  !'* 

"  Good-by  !"  said  he,  with  husky  cheerfulness, 
"  and  better  luck  and  kinder  neighbors  where  you 
settle  next." 

He  shut  the  door  and  was  gone. 

I  worked  steadily  until  I  had  removed  the  two 
inner  courses  of  brick  and  hid  the  debris,  then 
waited  for  the  jailer,  my  supper,  and  eight  o'clock 
— all  of  which  came  in  due  time.  While  I  waited, 
I  had  copied  the  memorandum  in  the  common- 
place-book, and  wrapped  Allie's  Bible  in  a  piece 
of  coarse  brown  paper,  being  determined  to  take 
it  with  me. 

As  the  clock  in  the  Court  House  steeple  began 
striking  eight,  I  removed  carefully  the  outer  course 
of  brick.  By  the  time  it  ceased  striking,  the  open- 
ing was  clear,  and  after  looking  out,  I  jumped 
down,  with  my  revolver  in  one  hand  and  Allie's 
Bible  in  the  other — for  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that 
I  had  half  suspected  that  Dick  Birney  had  spoken 


ESCAPE.  125 

more  truth  in  his  jest  about  Uriah  and  his  wife 
than  in  all  the  rest  of  the  conversation.  I  was 
not  molested,  however,  and  found  my  way  as 
speedily  as  possible  to  the  grove,  where  I  found 
Sachem,  as  I  had  been  told.  Then  my  suspicions 
vanished.     I  mounted  him,  and  before  morning 

was  in  R .     I  left  the  horse  at  a  stable  in  the 

city,  and  took  the  five  o'clock  train  for  the  North. 
The  railroad  itself  was  a  slowcoach  in  those  days, 
but  in  due  time  I  reached  New  York  and  met 
Alice. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

SOLUTION. 

T  FOUND  five  hundred  dollars  in  the  saddle- 
-^  bags  on  Sachem,  with  a  note  in  Dick's  hand- 
writing saying  it  was  in  payment  for  the  horse, 
which  he  haS  long  wanted. 

Alice  was  greatly  pleased  at  my  having  brought 
back  her  Bible.  But  for  her  joy  in  seeing  me  I 
think  she  would  have  been  still  more  demonstra- 
tive over  the  old  volume. 

"  And  was  it  truly  a  comfort  to  you,  Charles,  in 
that  terrible  prison  ?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

*' Yes,  dear,"  I  answered  seriously.  *'A  very 
great  comfort  indeed.    But  where  did  you  get  it  ?" 

"  Where  did  I  get  it  ?  Why,  it  was  my  mother's 
and  her  mother's  before  she  was  married.  Here 
is  our  family  record — so  far  as  we  know  it,  that  is 
— on  my  mother's  side.     Did  you  not  see  it?" 

"  I  had  not  noticed  it,"  I  said. 

''  You  see,"  she  said,  *'  my  mother  always  told 
me  that  her  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich 
man  in  some  English   manufacturing  town,  who 


SOLUTION.  127 

had  two  daughters,  my  grandmother  and  one 
whose  name  I  never  knew.  Her  name  was  Ellen 
— Ellen  Eax.  She  married  Robert  Jennings,  who 
was  a  poor  man,  some  sort  of  an  artist  I  should 
judge  from  what  has  been  told  me.  At  least  it 
was  in  opposition  to  the  wishes  of  her  father,  who 
refused  to  assent  to  their  marriage,  and  drove  her 
from  his  house  afterwards.  They  came  to  this 
country  when  it  was  new,  just  before  the  war  of 
the  Revolution,  I  believe,  and  soon  afterwards  both 
died.  My  mother  was  an  infant  at  that  time,  and 
was  left  in  the  care  of  a  neighbor,  whose  son  she 
married  when  she  grew  up.  She  died  long  ago, 
leaving  me,  her  youngest  and  only  surviving 
child." 

I  gathered  from  her  all  that  she  knew  of  her 
parentage,  the  places  where  her  mother  and  grand- 
mother had  lived,  and  then  wrote  to  Plummer  & 
Osgood  to  inquire  why  they  wanted  to  hear  of 
the  heirs  of  John  Eax.  I  learned  in  reply  that 
John  Eax  had  died  in  1783,  and  had  left  a  hand- 
some estate  which  the  heirs  of  Ellen  Eax,  his 
daughter,  if  any  were  living,  were  entitled  to  re- 
ceive. 

Well,  the  result  of  it  was,  that  with  some  little 
difficulty  I  completed  the  chain    of  proofs  which 


128  JOHN  EAX. 

showed  my  little  Alice,  the  overseer's  niece,  to 
be  the  great-granddaughter  of  John  Eax,  the 
Birmingham  manufacturer  who  had  left  an  im- 
mense fortune  for  the  daughter  whom  he  had 
driven  out.  I  did  not  let  Alice  know  of  it  until 
it  was  all  over,  and  the  decree  in  her  favor  signed. 
Then  I  procured  a  copy  and  put  it  between 
the  leaves  of  her  Bible.  When  she  found  it  I 
told  her  it  was  her  dowry  that  she  sent  me  in  the 
prison. 

The  fortune  of  John  Eax  was,  however,  coupled 
with  one  condition,  namely :  that  the  husband  of 
his  daughter,  or  her  sons,  or  the  husband  of  any 
female  heir  who  might  be  entitled  to  take  under 
his  will,  should,  in  such  event,  assume  the  name 
of  Eax,  With  which  condition  it  was  by  no  means 
difficult  for  me  to  comply. 

The  difficulties  which  I  had  experienced  from  a 
lack  of  money  since  leaving  Childsboro',  connected 
with  a  remembrance  of  the  fact  that  my  relatives 
had  twice  attempted  my  life  and  were  now  dwell- 
ing in  luxury  while  I  was  almost  in  penury,  did 
not  tend  to  foster  a  very  warm  attachment  to  the 
name  of  De  Jeunette.  In  fact,  my  feelings  to- 
wards my  relatives  were  so  bitter  that  I  felt  a 
malicious  pleasure  in  throwing  off  the  last  mark 


SOLUTION.  129 

of  relationship  with  them.  It  was  a  sort  of  retaH- 
ation  for  my  dishonor  and  expulsion  from  the 
clan.  As  soon  as  the  necessary  formalities  could 
be  effected,  therefore,  I  ceased  to  be  a  De  Jeunette 
and  became  John  Eax ;  for  it  was  my  notion,  in- 
stead of  taking  merely  the  name  of  Eax,  to  assume 
the  entire  name  of  the  man  who  had  proved  our 
benefactor. 

For  a  few  years  we  traveled  a  great  deal  abroad, 
yet  we  hesitated  to  settle  down  upon  the  Con- 
tinent, and  neither  of  us  was  inclined  to  remain 
in  the  land  from  whence  our  good  fortune  was 
derived.  The  fact  is,  we  were  both  of  us 
thoroughly  American,  and  had  no  wish  to  be 
otherwise.  Besides,  I  think  Ahce  saw  that  my 
old  thirst  for  dominance  and  leadership  among 
men  had  not  all  died  out,  and  desired  that  it 
should  be  gratified.  So  we  came  back  to  America 
and  invested  what  was  left  of  Alice's  dowry  in  one 
of  the  fresh,  new  States  of  the  North-west,  some 
of  it  well,  and  some  ill.  As  years  went  on,  how- 
ever, and  the  fetters  of  home  were  wrought  about 
us,  it  increased  until  I  became  master  of  an  estate 
which  would  have  made  that  of  which  I  had  been 
deprived  seem  dwarfish  and  mean.  I  had  grown 
with  the  young  State,  too,  and  honors  and  power 


I30  JOHN  EAX. 

had  come  in  no  small  measure  to  the  fortuitous 
namesake  of  John  Eax. 

In  the  midst  of  my  prosperity,  however,  Alice 
was  stricken  with  disease  and  taken  from  me, 
leaving  only  her  memory,  full  of  blessed  light, 
and  a  childish  reflex  of  her  own  beauty  in  our 
young  daughter,  Alice  Louise,  to  cheer  my  soli- 
tude. Before  she  died  she  called  me  to  her  bed- 
side, and  said  : 

''  You  have  often  wondered,  no  doubt,  at  the 
obstinacy  with  w^hich  I  contended  that  our  child 
should  be  called  Louise.  This  letter  will  explain 
it  to  you.     Read  it  when  I  am  gone." 

It  was  an  old  letter  from  Cousin  Louie,  dated 
on  the  day  of  my  arrest  in  Childsboro',  and  was 
as  follows : 

"  My  dear  Madame  :  Do  not  be  distressed  at 
the  arrest  of  your  husband.  Learning  that  certain 
parties  were  determined  to  take  his  life,  if  not 
prevented,  I  put  his  notes,  which  I  had  previously 
had  bought  up  for  me  at  a  great  discount,  into 
the  hands  of  a  noted  money-lender  named  Let- 
low,  who  is  simply  acting  as  my  agent  in  this 
manner,  and  as  your  husband's  friend.  While  he 
is  in  jail  he  is  safe  from  a  greater  evil,  and  we  will 


SOLUTION.  131 

find  some  way  to  get  him  off.  You  can  trust 
Sheriff  Birney,  who  is  a  true  friend  of  your 
husband.  Permit  me  to  request  that  you  will  not 
inform  Cousin  Charles  of  my  connection  with  the 
matter. 

"  I  am,  faithfully, 

''  Louise  de  Jeunette." 

This  letter  explained  what  had  hitherto  been 
somewhat  mysterious  to  me,  both  in  the  events 
which  had  then  occurred,  and  in  Ahce's  stout 
championship  of  my  cousin  Louie. 

Soon  after  this,  came  on  the  war.  The  North- 
west had  made  me  one  of  her  most  devoted  sons. 
The  free,  untrammeled  life,  the  fierce,  wild  rush 
of  business,  its  intense  earnestness  and  devotion 
to  progress  and  principle,  fascinated  me.  I  had 
little  reason  for  gratitude  or  tenderness  towards 
that  portion  of  the  nation  which  considered  itself 
aggrieved,  though  it  was  the  place  of  my  nativity. 
For  its  peculiar  principles  and  institutions  I  had 
never  much  regard.  Even  when  proud  of  being 
a  De  Jeunette  I  did  not  believe  slavery  to  be 
right ;  and  now  that  the  free  chill  wind  of  lake 
and  prairie  had  cleared  my  brain  of  the  mist  of 
interest  and  habit,  I  knew  it  was  wrong,  fearfully 


132  JOHN  EAX. 

wrong,  wrong  in  the  abstract,  and  still  more 
wrong  in  the  concrete,  wherever  it  touched  any 
class  or  nation,  a  wrong  to  the  soil  of  the  South, 
to  the  slave,  to  the  master,  to  the  poor  white.  I 
did  not  wish  to  fight  against  my  relatives,  but  I 
had  ocular  demonstration  that  they  would  not 
hesitate  to  take  my  life,  even  without  the  excuse 
of  public  war.  So  I  put  aside  this  scruple,  and 
was  one  of  the  first  who  offered  themselves  to 
put  down  rebellion. 

I  was  given  command  of  a  regiment,  and  before 
the  close  of  the  war  had  attained  a  generalship. 
When  the  surrender  came,  my  division  was 
encamped  in  the  vicinity  of  my  native  place,  and 
my  own  quarters  were  in  Childsboro'.  It  was  an 
odd  feeling  that  I  had  during  those  few  weeks 
of  unlimited  power  among  the  seats  of  the  De 
Jeunettes.  How  often  I  smiled  as  I  signed  my 
orders,  *'  John  Eax,  Brevet  Major-General  Com- 
manding Second  Division,"  at  the  thought  of  the 
invisible  name  it  hid  and  the  individuality  that 
was  lost  in  it.  But  this  was  all  the  revenge  I 
took.  I  did  think  strongly  once  or  twice  of 
having  my  cousins  brought  before  me  and  dis- 
covering myself  to  them — a  sort  of  Joseph  in  the 
Egypt  which  had  come  to  them.     When  I  made 


SOLUTION.  133 

inquiry,  however,  I  found  that  several  of  them 
had  died  as  brave  men  should  die,  and  that  others 
were  even  yet  suffering  from  wounds  received 
in  the  struggle.  Of  course,  I  gave  up  the  idea  at 
once,  and  was  really  ashamed  that  I  had  ever 
cherished  one  so  silly.  But  then  some  foolish- 
ness may  be  pardoned  to  one  who  experiences 
such  contrasts  as  that  between  my  departure 
from  Childsboro'  and  my  return  to  it. 

I  satisfied  myself  experimentally  with  Dick 
Birney,  the  Sheriff.  It  was  fifteen  years  since 
my  departure  ;  and  a  life  of  action,  with  some 
suffering,  as  well  as  the  wounds,  campaigning,  and 
exposure  of  the  war,  had  aged  me  and  changed 
me  no  little,  though  I  had  hardly  expected  that 
my  identity  would  remain  undiscovered — perhaps 
had  hardly  desired  that  it  should.  Under  pre- 
tense of  making  some  inquiries  in  regard  to  the 
county,  I  sent  for  Dick  Birney  and  asked  many 
questions  about  the  different  families  on  planta- 
tions near  the  town.  Among  others,  I  asked 
about  Beaumont. 

*'  That  place,"  said  Birney,  "  is  owned  by  Miss 
Louie  De  Jeunette,  willed  to  her  by  old  Peter  De 
Jeunette." 

"  Her  father,  I  suppose  ?"  I  said. 


134  JOHN  EAX. 

"  No,  her  uncle.  It  was  a  curious  thing,  but 
she  got  one  of  the  finest  estates  in  the  county  by 
it."  And  then  he  went  on  and  gave  me  a  full 
narrative  of  myself  from  his  standpoint.  When 
he  had  concluded,  I  asked  in  an  indifferent  tone : 

"  How  does  it  happen  she  has  never  married  ?'* 

"  Now  you  are  asking  me  a  question  which  has 
grown  old  in  Erie  County,  and  never  found  an 
answer  yet.  Some  say  it  is  because  she  is  too 
proud,  and  thinks  herself  too  good  for  any  sort 
of  a  man,  and  others  that  she  was  dead  in  love 
with  her  cousin  Charles  and  cannot  get  over  the 
disappointment  of  his  marrying  another.  I  don't 
consider  that  of  any  account,  for  she  was  not  more 
than  sixteen  or  eighteen  when  he  went  away. 
Besides,  she  looks  and  acts  like  anything  but  a  dis- 
appointed woman.  It  seems  to  me  that  she  grows 
fresher  and  fairer  every  year. 

"  What  do  the  family  say  of  her  course  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  None  of  them  presume  to  criticise  Queen 
Louie,  I  assure  you,"  he  replied.  **  She  certainly 
rules  the  family  as  easily  as  if  she  wore  a  crown 
and  they  were  her  subjects." 

As  I  had  received  all  the  information  I  cared 
about,  I  closed  the  conversation  without  his  hav- 


SOLUTION,  135 

ing  a  suspicion  of  the  real  identity  of  the  man 
with  whom  he  had  been  talking. 

I  determined  to  see  my  cousin  Louie,  and  was 
seized  with  an  irrepressible  desire  to  know  whether 
she  would  penetrate  the  mask  which  time  and  cir- 
cumstance had  placed  upon  me. 

So  a  few  days  afterward  I  rode  to  Beaumont, 
and  sent  in  my  card,  requesting  a  brief  interview 
upon  business  of  importance. 

I  was  ushered  into  the  old  parlor,  which  seemed 
unchanged  since  my  earliest  remembrance,  and 
in  a  few  moments  Cousin  Louie  entered.  Good 
reason  had  Dick  Birney  to  say  that  time  had  not 
robbed  her  of  any  charm,  while  it  had  brought 
many  more.  She  had  that  evident  scorn  for  all 
who  wore  the  blue  that  all  the  ladies  of  the  South 
took  such  delight  in  showing  at  that  day.  Her 
greeting  was  cold  and  distant,  as  she  inquired  to 
what  she  was  indebted  for  the  unexpected  honor 
of  my  presence. 

''Your  name  is  Miss  Louise  De  Jeunette,"  I 
inquired  doubtfully,  consulting  a  memorandum, 
as  if  to  ascertain  a  fact  not  within  my  own  knowl- 
edge. 

"  It  is,  sir." 

"  Pardon  me,  madam  ;  but  will  you   allow  me 


13^  JOHN  EAX. 

to  ask  if  this  letter  was  written  by  you?"  said  I, 
handing  her  the  letter  which  she  had  written  to 
Alice. 

No  sooner  had  she  recognized  it  than  her  face 
showed  the  utmost  excitement. 

*' How  did  this  come  into  your  possession?" 
she  inquired. 

"  It  was  given  me  by  the  person  to  whom  it 
was  addressed,  on  her  dying  bed,"  I  answered. 

"You  knew  her,  then?" 

"  Intimately." 

''And  did  you  know  her  husband — " 

"  Her  husband  ?     I  was  her  husband." 

"  You — her  husband  ?"  she  cried,  starting  up 
and  coming  towards  me.     "  Then — " 

She  tottered  and  would  have  fallen,  but  I 
sprang  forward  and  caught  her  in  my  arms. 

"Cousin  Louie,"  I  cried,  "do  you  not  know 
me?" 

"  O  Cousin  Charles,  I — I  thought — you  were 
dead,"  she  exclaimed,  as  the  tears  ran  over  her 
eyelids.  "  Why  did  you  try  to  make  me  think 
you  were  that  odious  Yankee,  General  Eax?" 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be  no  less  a  personage,"  I 
replied. 

"  Oh,  you  cannot  deceive  me  any  more.    I  know 


SOLUTION.  137 

you  now.  You  are  my  cousin  Charles  De  Jeu- 
nette,  whom  I  am  very  glad  to  see — despite  his 
disguise,"  she  said,  resuming  at  once  the  de- 
meanor of  hostess,  and  motioning  me  to  a  seat 
beside  her  on  the  sofa. 

''  I  was  Charles  De  Jeunette,  I  am  John  Eax!" 

^'In  disguise,"  she  interrupted  archly. 

**In  very  truth,"  I  replied. 

''  I  do  not  understand  you.  How  can  your 
words  be  true?"  she  asked. 

Then  I  told  her  the  whole  story  of  my  life  since 
she  had  known  it. 

"  But  how  could  you  fight  against  the  South  ? 
How  could  you  join  the  Yankees?"  she  asked,  as 
I  concluded. 

''  You  forget,  Cousin  Louie,"  I  replied,  "  that  I, 
of  all  men,  had  little  reason  to  think  kindly  of  the 
South.  Excepting  you,  there  was  hardly  one  in 
its  borders  to  whom  I  owed  either  gratitude  or 
affection,  let  alone  the  principles  which  were  in- 
volved and  the  national  life  which  was  imper- 
iled." 

*'  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you  have  be- 
come a  Yankee  in  fact,  and  believe  that  you  all 
were  in  the  right  to  oppress  and  rob  the  poor 
South?" 


138  JOHN  EAX. 

"  I  am  all  that  my  uniform  imports,"  I  an- 
swered quietly — ''  no  more,  no  less  !" 

''  Then  you  have  indeed  ceased  to  be  a  De 
Jeunette,"  she  said  hotly,  "and  I  thank  God  for 
it!" 

"As  I  have  done  many  thousand  times,"  was 
my  response. 

"  I  think  you  might  at  least  have  retained 
enough  of  the  gentleman  not  to  come  here  and 
insult  me,  sir,"  she  cried. 

"  Gently,  Miss  Louie,"  I  replied.  "  I  came 
here,  in  the  open  day,  wearing  the  uniform  which 
showed  my  rank  and  proclivities,  to  thank  you 
for  your  kindness  to  me  at  another  time,  which 
was  unknown  to  me  until  that  letter  was  placed  in 
my  hands,  and  to  ask  the  amount  of  my  indebt- 
edness to  you.  I  had  no  intention  or  desire  to 
argue  with  you  the  past  or  present,  and,  as  you 
well  know,  am  quite  incapable  of  insulting  you. 
As  to  being  a  renegade  De  Jeunette,  the  taunt 
has  lost  its  force.  Allow  me  to  ask  in  what 
amount  I  am  your  debtor?" 

"  None  at  all,"  she  answered  half  sullenly. 

"You  will  not  tell  me?" 

"  I  tell  you,  you  owe  me  nothing,  sir!" 

"  That  makes  it  my  duty  to  pay  you,  dollar  for 


SOLUTION.  139 

dollar,  with  interest,  the  amount  of  the  obligations 
you  paid  off  for  me." 

**  I  will  not  touch  your  money." 

"  As  you  choose." 

"  Do  you  think  after  receiving  Beaumont  and 
all  the  property  which  should  have  been  yours, 
and  enjoying  its  use  and  profits  so  many  years,  I 
would  touch  the  money  which  you  acquired  by 
renouncing  your  family  and  country!"  she  ex- 
claimed, with  tears  springing  to  her  eyes. 

*'  That  family  had  already  disowned  me." 

'■'■  You  know  I  always  thought  that  was  wrong, 
and  have  ever  felt  like  an  intruder  in  this  house." 

"  My  parents  had  a  right  to  dispose  of  their 
property  as  they  chose  ;  and  having  given  it  to  you, 
it  is  yours  without  condition  or  limitation.  But  I 
must  pay  my  own  debts.  Here  is  the  amount  of 
all  the  claims  on  which  I  was  sued  by  Bill  Letlow, 
at  your  instance,  with  interest  to  this  date."  I 
laid  a  pile  of  bills  before  her  as  I  spoke,  and 
added  :  "You  will  please  count  them  and  give  me 
a  receipt." 

"  I  will  not  touch  it.  You  shall  not  force  your 
money  upon  me  in  that  way ;"  and  she  pushed  it 
from  her. 

"  What !"  I  said,  as  if  in   surprise.     "  You  will 


140  JOHN  EAX. 

not  give  me  a  receipt  when  I  offer  you  the  money 
for  my  just  debt?     Perhaps  you  want  specie." 

"  I  don't  want  anything! — you  know  I  don't!" 
she  cried  in  a  rage. 

"  But  I  cannot  be  trifled  with  in  this  manner, 
madame.  A  debtor  has  rights,  and  I  must  assert 
mine.  If  you  will  not  give  me  a  receipt,  I  must 
call  in  one  of  my  staff,  to  witness  the  payment — 
or  tender." 

I  stepped  to  the  door  and  said,  "  Orderly !" 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  soldier,  who  was  sitting  on 
the  porch. 

"  Ask  Captain  Westcott  to  step  here  for  a  mo- 
ment." 

The  soldier  saluted,  and  went  down  the  steps 
towards  the  end  of  the  avenue,  where  two  or  three 
of  my  staff  were  in  waiting. 

Louie  saw  him,  and  turning  towards  me,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  and  her  hands  clasped,  said: 

"  Please,  Cousin  Charles — please  don't !  Take 
back  your  money,  and  don't  make  a  foolish  scene 
here.     Please  do !" 

She  came  close  to  me  and  looked  up  beseech- 
ingly, her  great  brown  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"  Upon  one  condition  only,  Cousin  Louie." 

"  What  is  that  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 


SOLUTION.  141 

"  I  would  rather  do  anything  than  have  this  fool- 
ish quarrel  made  public.  I  cannot  take  your 
money.     You  know  that.     Take  it  away !" 

"  It  is,  that  I  shall  take  my  Cousin  Louie  with 

it. 

*'  O  Cousin  Charles  !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  but  her 
face  lighted  up  with  a  flaming  blush,  and  her  eyes 
gathered  a  softer  light.     "  You  know  I  cannot." 

''  The  Captain's  coming,"  I  said. 

*'  Oh,  I — you  are  too  bad,"  she  said,  wringing 
her  hands  and  letting  her  head  fall  upon  my 
breast,  "  to  take  advantage  of  me  so." 

"  Do  you  consent?"  I  asked. 

''Yes." 

The  Captain's  steps  were  heard  approaching  the 
porch.  I  gave  her  one  kiss,  swept  the  money 
into  my  pocket,  and  went  out  to  meet  liim. 
I  managed  to  detain  him  a  moment,  that  she 
might  remove  the  traces  of  agitation,  and  then 
went  with  him  into  the  parlor.  She  had  taken  a 
spray  of  her  favorite  honeysuckle  from  the  man- 
tel, and  was  puUing  it  in  pieces — her  face  radiant 
with  happiness. 

''  Captain,"  I  said,  ''  allow  me  to  present  to  you 
Miss  Louie  De  Jeunctte,  my  affianced  wife." 

Louie  was  covered  with  a  pretty  confusion,  but 


142  JOHN  EAX. 

the  Captain's  consternation  was  overwhelming. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  bow  and  en- 
deavor to  hide  it,  which  he  did. 

Making  some  excuse  for  having  brought  him 
in,  I  gave  him  some  orders  for  the  day,  and  di-. 
rected  him  to  return  to  camp,  as  I  should  stay  to 
dinner,  and  sent  him  back  to  retail  the  marvelous 
news  to  his  fellows,  and,  in  short,  to  the  entire 
command. 

There  was  no  delay  in  consummating  the  en- 
gagement thus  suddenly  initiated.  Our  cousins 
were  in  high  dudgeon  at  Louie's  course  in  marry- 
ing a  "  Yankee,"  and  we  did  not  deem  it  necessary 
to  add  to  their  hostility  by  revealing  the  meta- 
morphosis which  had  taken  place.  In  revisiting 
with  Louie  the  scenes  which  had  been  familiar  to 
our  childhood,  I  learned  the  value  of  a  bed  of  ore 
which  lay  on  our  land  ;  and  partly  to  please 
Louie,  and  partly  with  a  hope  of  seeing  the  soli- 
tudes peopled  and  prosperous  like  the  busy  haunts 
of  the  North,  we  came  back  again  to  Beaumont. 
The  whole  story  gradually  leaked  out,  and  was  a 
nine  days'  wonder,  and  then  passed  away  into  the 
commonplace  past.  My  relatives  were  first  angry 
at  my  change  of  name,  then  regretful,  and  finally 
resigned. 


SOLUTION.  143 

.  There  is  but  one  thing  more.  My  children 
illustrate  one  of  the  strange  revenges  which  Time 
effects,  and  by  which  the  future  makes  recompense 
so  often  to  the  past.  My  golden-haired  Louie, 
AUce's  child,  the  lineal  descendant  of  the  English 
shovel-maker,  is  likely  to  become  the  mistress  of 
Graymont,  and,  with  God's  blessing,  become  the 
mother  of  De  Jeunettes ;  while  the  third  John 
Eax,  a  sturdy  three-year-old,  leans  on  "Cousin 
Louie's"  lap  and  calls  her  "  mamma." 


The  night  had  fallen  as  we  sat  and  smoked  upon 
the  porch  of  the  grand  old  mansion  while  Charles 
De  Jeunette  told  the  strange  story  of  his  inherit- 
ance. The  ceaseless  rumble  of  the  unwearied  water- 
wheel  came  up  from  the  river  bank  a  mile  away, 
while  the  glare  of  the  furnace  fire  upon  the  opposite 
hill-side  lighted  up  the  cedars  of  Beaumont.  The 
namesake  of  the  Birmingham  manufacturer,  filled 
with  the  spirit  of  the  great  North-west,  was  at 
once  exacting  tribute  from  the  land  of  his  birth, 
and  repaying  her  a  thousandfold  for  what  he  took. 
The  kindred  home-sites  had  fallen  away  in  mag- 
nificence, and  the  neighboring  plantations  showed. 


144  JOHN  EAX. 

the  lack  of  prosperity.  The  hedge-rows  were  up- 
grown  and  the  ditches  clogged.  The  old  South 
was  dying  around  us.  The  new  South  was  spring- 
ing into  life  about  us — the  spirit  of  the  North 
and  the  manhood  of  the  South  its  matchless 
elements. 


The  End. 


'^umtXan. 


MAMELON. 


CHAPTER   I. 


BIRDS   OF    PARADISE. 


T  T  was  St.  Valentine's  Day,  and  a  group  of 
-^  merry  girls  with  fair  hair,  light  eyes,  and 
restless,  eager  ways,  unwilling  refugees  from  the 
storms  and  routs  of  a  Northern  winter,  were  gath- 
ered in  reckless  abandon  on  the  sunny  back  ver- 
anda of  a  Florida  hotel.  Camp-chairs,  rockers,  a 
lounge  or  two,  and  numberless  ottomans  afforded 
us  resting  places  as  we  chatted  and  laughed  and 
basked  in  the  soft,  delicious  sunshine  of  the  semi- 
tropic  spring.  The  balmy  breeze  which  had  come 
over  forest  and  savanna  far  enough  to  have  lost 
the  briny  sharpness  with  which  it  left  the  coral 
keys,  had  gathered  a  hint  of  the  hot,  mephitic 
odors  of  the  early  blossoming  vines  of  the  ever- 
glades, and  greeted  us  with  a  dreamy  languor. 
There  was  a  kind  of  sentiment,  an  undertone^ 


148  MAMELON. 

as  it  were,  of  invalidism  among  us.  Almost  our 
sole  brunette,  the  queenly  and  peerless  Effie,  who 
reclined  upon  the  green  rep  lounge  as  on  a  throne, 
the  most  rollicking  and  reckless  spirit  among  us, 
with  great  liquid  eyes  full  of  audacious  mirth,  had 
yet  the  skin  of  silky  softness  and  the  bloomy 
cheek  which  we  all  knew  to  be  precursors  of  the 
fatal  hectic.  The  most  of  us,  however,  were  sim- 
ply tired.  The  rush  and  cram,  the  unremitting 
excitement  and  restless  ambition  of  American 
school-girl  life,  were  just  over.  Nearly  all  of  us 
had  graduated  the  summer  before.  No  wonder 
we  were  tired.  Nature  was  revenging  itself  upon 
our  overwrought  young  frames.  So  we  were  sent 
down  into  this  delightful  desert  by  anxious  fa- 
thers, careful  mothers,  and  sometimes,  as  we  ma- 
liciously whispered  amongst  ourselves,  through 
the  machinations  of  those  who  were  little  inclined 
to  a  barefoot  reel  at  the  nuptials  of  a  younger  sis- 
ter. So  while  we  waited  and  recuperated  we 
dreamed  lazily  of  coming  conquest. 

Of  the  elder  ladies  who  were  with  us  youngHngs 
in  this  social  Patmos  our  bevy  was  usually  hardly 
respectful.  They  were  dowagers  and  female  Cer- 
beruses — so  we  called  them — mammas  and  aunts, 
or  wives  with  sick  husbands,  literary  old  maids,  or 


BIRDS  OF  PARADISE.  1 49 

widows  who  had  exhausted  the  ordinary  arts  of 
conquest,  and  betaken  themselves  to  the  desper- 
ate chances  which  a  fashionable  sanitarium  might 
afford.  All  of  them  were  tabooed  by  our  merry 
clique,  whose  undisputed  kingdom  in  fair  weather 
was  this  second  story  back  veranda — all  except 
one. 

She  was  a  small,  lithe  woman,  of  a  rich  warm 
complexion,  a  wealth  of  soft  brown  hair,  arched 
eyebrows,  dimpled  chin,  and  cheeks  whose  tender 
glow  seemed  to  bid  defiance  to  Time,  though  he 
had  toyed  with  her  abundant  tresses,  as  the  few 
silver  threads  among  them  showed.  She  had  that 
exquisite  grace  and  natural  abandon,  that  har- 
mony and  flexibility  of  hmb  and  figure  which  only 
comes  from  the  pure  air,  nourishing  and  beautify- 
ing sunshine,  and  luxurious  unrestraint  of  a  South- 
ern country  girlhood.  Upon  her  arrival  a  few 
weeks  before  she  had  affiliated  with  us  as  natu- 
rally as  we  with  each  other.  Since  that  time 
even  Effie  had  been  a  lesser  luminary.  She 
seemed  as  young  as  the  youngest,  was  as  gay  as 
the  gayest,  and  yet  was  clothed  upon  with  an  un- 
conscious quiet  dignity  which  bespoke  the  round- 
ness and  completeness  of  a  ripened  womanhood. 
In  a  week  she  had  conquered  all.      Every  girl  had 


ISO  MA  melon: 

confided  her  sorrows  and  heart-aches  to  this  new 
friend,  and  been  soothed  she  knew  not  how.  The 
dowagers  were  full  of  her  praise  despite  them- 
selves, and  even  the  poor  invalids  seemed  to 
gather  new  life  from  her  abounding  vitality,  while 
the  spiritless  masculines,  who  were  either  too  weak 
or  too  cowardly  to  compete  for  the  prize  of  love 
and  beauty  in  the  parlors  of  the  Northern  cities, 
and  had  come  to  this  '*  Castle  of  Indolence,"  in 
the  hope  that  mere  eiimii  might  give  them  the  eii- 
tr^e  to  some  witless  maiden's  heart,  found  life 
enough  to  crowd  our  parlors  at  evening,  and  be- 
come almost  endurable,  under  the  pervading 
charm  of  her  presence. 

Who  was  she  ?  Nobody  knew,  yet  nobody  in- 
quired. She  was  Mrs.  Dewar.  That  much  the 
hotel  register  told  us.  It  gave,  too,  an  unknown 
country-seat  in  an  upland  county  of  the  Carolinas 
as  her  home.  She  herself  told  us — not  in  words 
— that  she  was  a  lady — experienced,  cultured,  and 
surpassingly  lovable.  Of  her  domestic  relations, 
home,  past,  or  present  life,  we  knew  no  more 
after  three  weeks  of  daily  contact  than  when  she 
first  entered  our  circle. 

On  this  St.  Valentine's  morning  who  does  not 
know  what  was  the  theme  of  our  conversation  in 


BIRDS   OF  PARADISE.  15I 

this  girl-club,  this  Sorosis  of  the  Southern  hotel 
veranda?  If  there  is  any  one  so  dull,  let  him  re- 
main in  darkness.  I*  at  least,  will  not  enlighten 
him.  In  the  midst  of  our  glee  Mrs.  Dewar  joined 
us,  and,  sitting  down  upon  the  lounge,  took  Effie's 
head  on  her  lap  and  bedewed  it  with  loving 
caresses  as  she  listened  to  our  chatter.  If  she 
loved  Effie  better  than  the  rest  it  only  added  to 
our  admiration  for  her.  She  was  unusually  silent 
this  morning,  yet  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  her 
face  so  radiant  with  joy.  After  a  time  she  said 
in  a  low  mellow  tone,  as  full  of  rapture  as  the 
melody  of  far-off  wedding-bells  : 

*'Ah,  girls!  I  hope  the  gentle  saint  may  bring 
to  every  one  of  your  hearts  as  much  of  joy  as  he 
has  given  to  me." 

There  was  no  avoiding  it  then.  No  heart  could 
have  resisted  the  entreaties  of  that  dozen  of  ex- 
pectant girls  hungry  for  a  romance.  Lounging  in 
all  sorts  of  careless  attitudes  upon  floor,  chairs,  and 
cushions,  in  bright  n^glig^e  costumes,  in  the  soft 
spring  sunshine,  we  listened  to  the  story  of  our 
unconscious  enchantress. 


CHAPTER   II. 


PAUL    AND   I. 


"pAUL  and  I  grew  up  as  boy  and  girl  together 
•^  on  adjoining  plantations.  He  was  a  Dewar 
and  I  a  Moyer,  both  old  families  that  reached 
back  into  the  chaos  of  colonial  times  with  cer- 
tainty, and  had  a  fund  of  traditionary  lore  which 
made  no  account  of  centuries  and  was  daring 
enough  to  claim  the  best  blood  in  more  than 
one  kingdom  for  its  origin.  Of  course  we  never 
tested  this  theory,  and  it  might  have  been  apoc- 
ryphal. I  suspect  we  all  thought  it  to  be,  but 
we  were  beyond  denial  among  the  first  families  of 
the  Carolinas,  and  it  was  a  pleasant  and  harmless 
amusement  to  speculate  upon  what  our  ancestors 
might  have  been  before  the  establishment  of  the 
De  Grafenreidt's  colony  of  Swiss  and  Palatine  at 
the  junction  of  the  Neuse  and  Trent.  Of  course 
they  had  constituted  a  part  of  that  colony.  The 
proof  of  that  was  incontestable  ;  yet  Paul  used  to 
say  it  would  be  hard  to  satisfy  a  jury  even  of  that. 
But  he  was  always  a  doubter.     His  mother  was  a 


PAUL  AND  I,  153 

« 

Boutrlght,  who,  though  as  good  a  woman  as  ever 
lived,  had  no  family  to  speak  of.  I  think  it  was 
his  perfect  adoration  of  his  mother  that  made 
Paul  delight  particularly  in  ridiculing  our  old 
family  notions. 

We  always  called  each  other  "  cousin,"  though 
we  never  could  discover  that  we  were  any  kin 
to  each  other.  We  were  slightly  connected  by 
collateral  marriages,  but  I  do  not  think  there 
had  ever  been  any  intermarriage  between  our 
families,  unless  it  was  in  the  old  days  before  they 
came  to  America. 

As  I  said,  though,  we  had  been  boy  and  girl 
together;  our  plantation  was  just  above  theirs  on 
the  river.  His  father  was  also  the  testamentary 
guardian  of  the  estate  devised  to  me  by  my  father, 
who  had  died  in  my  infancy.  He  was  an  only 
son  and  I  an  only  daughter.  Both  houses  had 
been  almost  equally  homes  to  both  of  us.  Even 
in  childhood  I  had  spent  months  at  a  time  at  my 
guardian's,  and  when  we  grew  older  Paul's  mother 
always  complained  that  his  vacations  were  spent 
at  Hickory  Grove,  our  home,  instead  of  Oakland, 
his  father's  place. 

We  fished,  rode,  hunted,  sung,  read,  laughed, 
and  would  have  cried  together  had    there  been 


I  54  MA  MELON. 

any  occasion  for  tears  In  our  young  lives.  I  can- 
not remember  when  I  did  not  love  him  Avith  a 
jealous  passionateness,  and  he  had  protected  and 
cared  for  me  so  long  that  we  were  accounted 
lovers  almost  before  we  had  ceased  to  be  children. 
Yet  we  had  hardly  interchanged  a  word  of  love 
in  our  lives.  Our  affection  had  been  open  and 
undisguised  from  childhood,  but  we  had  never 
talked  about  it.  We  could  not  remember  when 
caresses  and  endearments  were  not  as  much  a 
matter  of  course  between  us  as  if  I  had  been  his 
sister.  I  should  have  been  amazed  if  he  had  not 
greeted  me  every  day  when  we  first  met  with  a 
kiss ;  and  once  when  I  refused  him  my  lips  when  he 
had  just  come  home  after  a  long  absence  at  col- 
lege, I  think  he  thought  I  had  parted  with  my  wits. 
I  doubt  if  he  knows  to-day  that  it  was  simply  a 
piece  of  innocent  coquetry,  designed  to  heighten 
the  pleasure  of  yielding.  It  was  provoking,  the 
way  he  acted  about  it,  too.  He  never  attempted 
to  put  aside  my  hands  or  overcome  my  feigned 
aversion  either  by  violence  or  persuasion,  and 
I  had  to  steal  behind  him  as  he  leaned  back  in 
the  great  arm-chair  upon  the  porch  that  evening 
and  kiss  his  newly-bearded  lips,  or  I  verily  believe 
I  should  not  have  known  their  touch  until  to-day. 


PAUL   AND  I.  155 

Our  betrothal  had  been  as  much  a  matter  of 
course  as  our  courtship.  It  was  a  right  romantic 
one,  too.  I  had  never  worn  a  ring.  The  truth 
is,  I  was  vain  of  my  hand  :  it  was  counted  very 
shapely  in  those  days.  I  had  always  said  that  I 
would  never  wear  any  ring  but  one  solitaire  and 
one  plain  gold — meaning,  of  course,  an  engage- 
ment and  a  wedding  ring.  It  was  a  mere  piece  of 
vanity,  as  I  wished  to  make  my  hands  noticeable 
by  the  absence  of  these  usual  adornments ;  a  res- 
olution to  which  I  have  strictly  adhered,"  she 
added,  as  she  glanced  at  a  plain  gold  circlet  and  a 
diamond  solitaire  which  adorned  her  exquisite 
hand. 

One  day  Paul  took  my  hand  in  his  great  palm 
and  said,  half  musingly : 

^' You  ought  to  have  a  ring.  Cousin  Sue." 
"  You  know  well  enough,  sir,  the  reason  why 
I  have  none,"  I  said  mockingly,  with  never  a 
thought  that  I  was  challenging  him  to  woo  me, 
though  I  was  ready  to  marry  him  that  instant  if 
he  had  but  asked  me  to  do  so.  He  smiled  in  his 
grave  way  and  said : 

**  Do  you  adhere  to  your  old  fancy  about  rings  ?" 

I  saw  then  what  a  forward  hoyden  I  had  been, 

and  was  angry  at  myself  for  having  done  so,  and 


156  MA  MELON. 

at  him  for  taking  advantage  of  my  unmeaning 
banter,  as  I  thought  he  must  have  known  it  was. 
I  felt  my  face  grow  hot,  and  as  I  jerked  away  my 
hand  and  flashed  a  look  up  at  his  face,  I  saw  he 
was  smiling  down  at  my  embarrassment.  I  was 
right  down  angry  then,  and  determined  that  I 
would  carry  it  through  with  as  brazen  a  face  as 
I  thought  he  had  tried  to  put  upon  me,  so  I 
snapped  out : 

'^  Yes,  I  do,  sir!"  and  making  him  a  low,  mock 
courtesy,  I  left  the  porch  and  went  off  to  my 
room  to  cry  for  shame  or  anger — I  hardly  knew 
which.  It  was  the  first  mean  thing  I  had  ever 
known  of  Paul  Dewar. 

When  he  came  the  next  day,  I  was  half  a  mind 
to  run  away ;  but  before  I  could  decide  whether 
to  go  or  stay  he  had  come  into  the  sitting-room 
where  I  was  with  mamma,  who  was  not  well  then, 
and  before  I  knew  it,  almost,  had  kissed  us  both, 
as  he  had  done  every  time  he  had  come  for  so 
many  years,  and  was  sitting  in  the  sunshine  before 
mother's  sofa,  with  his  head  in  her  lap,  like  a 
great  boy  as  he  was,  while  she  stroked  his  brown 
locks  which  the  sunlight  transformed  into  a  golden 
crown  upon  his  brow.  Then  he  read  to  us  and 
laughed  and   chatted   until  I  forgot  the  escapade 


PAUL  AND  I.  157 

of  the  day  before,  and  was  as  contented  as  if  I 
had  never  made  that  unmaidenly  speech,  which  I 
began  to  think  he  did  not  notice  after  all.  I  was 
hemming  some  handkerchiefs  for  him  and  work- 
ing a  pretty  monogram  of  his  initials  in  the  corner 
at  that  very  time.  Finally  he  took  a  little  leather 
case  from  his  pocket,  opened  it,  and  held  it 
towards  me.  It  contained  a  plain  gold  ring  and  a 
diamond  solitaire. 

''  Which  will  you  have.  Cousin  Sue  ?"  he  asked 
in  his  provoking,  calm  way.  I  was  angry  that  he 
should  pursue  the  cruel  jest,  which  my  thought- 
lessness had  allowed  him  to  make  at  my  expense, 
instead  of  asking  me  nicely,  as  a  lover  should,  to 
be  his  wife  ;  so  I  said,  coolly : 

''Suppose  I  don't  choose  either,  sir?"  and  hand- 
ed the  case  back  to  him.  My  mother  seemed  to 
have  just  comprehended  the  scene,  or  all  of  it  ex- 
cept the  color  it  obtained  from  our  previous  con- 
versation, and  began  to  laugh.  Paul  took  the 
case  and  said  quietly : 

"  Very  well.  They  are  both  yours  whenever 
you  choose." 

Then  mother  asked  to  see  them,  looked  at 
them  carefully  and  then  at  me,  and  said  signifi- 
cantly : 


158  MA  MELON. 

"  You  do  not  know  what  you  are  throwing 
away." 

I  could  not  stand  that,  but  jumped  up  and  ran 
to  my  room  to  have  another  cry. 

Paul  stayed,  and  I  heard  him  talking  with  mam- 
ma a  long  time.  Finally  I  stole  out  of  the  house 
and  went  along  the  path  I  knew  he  would  take  in 
going  home  until  I  came  to  a  grapevine  which 
clambered  up  to  daylight  and  sunshine  over  the 
bolls  and  branches  of  a  grove  of  oaks  and  hick- 
orys.  It  was  just  in  blossom  then,  and  the  subtle 
fragments  of  the  little  clustering  flowers  filled  the 
whole  grove  as  if  it  were  carpeted  with  mignon- 
ette. I  sat  down  upon  one  of  the  long,  pendent 
vines  and  swung  myself  back  and  forth  nursing 
my  wrath. 

Presently  along  came  Paul  whistling  as  care- 
lessly as  if  I  had  never  lived.  How  cold  and  mean 
it  seemed ! 

*'  Ha!  Cousin  Sue/*  he  cried  as  he  came  oppo- 
site where  I  was.     "  You  here  ?" 

"  O  Cousin  Paul !"  I  burst  out,  and  the  tears 
would  come  in  spite  of  me.  *'  How  could  you  be 
so  mean  !  And  right  before  mamma,  too  !  You 
know  I  am  willing  to  wear  your  ring,"  I  sobbed ; 
"  that  is — if — if  you  want  I  should." 


PAUL  AND  I.  159 

"  What  in  the  world  would  I  offer  it  to  you  for 
unless  I  wished  you  to  wear  it  ?  There,  there, 
never  mind,  dear,"  patting  my  head  as  if  I  were  a 
fretted  child  ;  *'  there,  take  your  choice,"  said  he, 
holding  the  box  towards  me,  *'  either  one,  or  both." 

I  took  out  the  engagement  ring  and  laid  it  in 
my  hand. 

*'  Won't  you  have  the  other,  too  ?"  he  asked. 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  impertinence?  But 
I  was  determined  he  should  not  make  me  angry 
again,  so  I  merely  said : 

"■  No,  I  thank  you,  not  at  present." 

What  do  you  suppose  he  did  ?  Just  shut  up 
the  case  and  put  it  in  his  vest  pocket,  with  : 

**  Very  well.  It  is  all  ready  whenever  you  do 
want  it." 

Was  there  ever  such  an  oaf  at  love-making?  I 
could  have  cried  again,  but  would  not.  So  I  sat 
rocking  back  and  forth  in  the  grapevine  swing 
with  the  ring  still  lying  in  the  palm  of  my  hand. 

"Why  don't  you  put  it  on?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  Cousin  Paul,"  I  said,  and  I  think  there 
must  have  been  an  undertone  of  triumph  in  my 
voice,  for  I  saw  my  time  had  come  at  last,  "  that 
would  never  do.  You  must  put  it  on  with  a  kiss 
and  a  rhyme,  or  it  will  be  unlucky." 


l6o  MAMELON, 

**  Pshaw,"  he  said  fretfully,  **  what  do  you  want 
to  bother  me  for?" 

"  Bother  you  ?"  I  asked  innocently.  "  Nothing 
of  the  kind  ;  but  I  will  nevex*  invite  bad  luck  by 
putting  it  on  myself." 

He  knew  I  would  not ;  so  after  much  tribulation 
he  made  a  rhyme,  whispered  it  in  my  ear,  slipped 
the  ring  upon  my  finger  and  kissed  my  lips — the 
dear  old  bear — quite  lover-like. 


CHAPTER   III. 

"  A    WORD   IN   SEASON — HOW    GOOD    IT    IS  !  " 

ft 

A  ND  that  was  all  his  lovemaking.  He  just 
-^  ^  kept  coming  and  going  as  he  had  always 
done,  never  giving  me  another  pretty  word  or  a 
tenderer  caress,  calling  me  "  Cousin  Sue"  as  he 
had  before,  and  just  being  the  same  dear  kind 
Paul  whom  I  had  always  loved  to  distraction.  I 
put  on  all  the  little  artful  ways  I  could  invent  to 
induce  him  to  play  the  lover,  but  he  would  not. 
He  would  be  just  plain  Paul  and  I  his  cousin 
Sue. 

So  you  may  well  imagine  how  surprised  I  was, 
when  the  next  anniversary  of  the  lover's  saint 
came  round,  to  receive  a  valentine  from  my  staid, 
matter-of-course,  lover-cousin  Paul.  Although 
we  were  known  to  be  engaged  and  had  been 
counted  the  same  as  betrothed  for  many  a  year,  I 
was  still  something  of  a  belle  in  the  country,  and 
Valentine's  day  never  passed  without  my  receiv- 
ing my  full  share  of  flattering  and  amatory 
epistles  through  the  post.     I  had  never  had  one 


1 62  -  MA  MELON. 

from    Paul,  however,  and  had  never  dreamed  of 
his  being  guilty  of  such  commonplace  frivolity. 

I  had  started  Peter,  the  house  boy,  right  early 
that  morning  to  the  post-office  a  mile  away,  and 
when  he  came  back  there  it  was  with  the  others 
— just  a  plain  white  envelope  among  the  many 
quaint  and  elegant  devices  which  others  had  sent 
me.  There  was  no  cupid  or  torch  or  loving 
legend  visible  upon  it,  but  simply  the  honest 
manly  superscription, 

"  Miss  Susie  Mover, 

Mamelon** 

No  one  would  have  dreamed  it  to  have  been 
anything  pertaining  to  love  or  St.  Valentine's 
day.  It  looked  like  an  ordinary  every-day  letter  -, 
and  as  I  did  not  happen  to  notice  that  the  super- 
scription was  Paul's  it  was  left  unopened  until 
all  its  more  pretentious  companions  had  been 
opened,  read,  and  commented  upon  by  mamma, 
who,  dear,  delicate,  loving  creature,  was  almost 
as  much  interested  in  my  pleasures  as  I  was  my- 
self. She  had  been  a  widow  and  in  somewhat 
delicate  health  so  long  that  I  had  become  more 
of  an  associate  than  daughters  usually  are  to  a 


"A    WORD  IN  SEASON— HOW  GOOD  IT  IST    1 63 

mother.  Besides,  she  was  not  yet  old.  She  had 
married  young  and  I  was  her  oldest  and  only 
child.  Then,  too,  she  was  one  of  those  women 
who9e  hearts  never  can  grow  old.  I  can  see  her 
now  as  she  sat  that  morning  in  her  elegant  wrap, 
vvith  the  waving  steely-gray  hair  lying  above  her 
broad,  low  brow,  her  great  dark  eyes  full  of  a 
soft  tender  light  as  she  watched  my  eager  vivacity 
and  reached  out  her  slender  white  hand  for  every 
epistle  that  had  amused  or  interested  me — prais- 
ing those  that  were  tasteful,  admiring  the  quaint 
and  costly,  and  laughing  her  own  low^  guLrgllngp 
mellow  laugh  over  those  that  were  humorous  or 
grotesque. 

She  had  never  said  a  word  to  me  about  my 
engagement  with  Paul — had  never  even  made  a 
remark  about  the  ring  I  wore — but  a  thousand 
times  I  had  seen  her  eager  looks  rest  upon  us 
with  untold  tenderness  when  we  were  together ; 
and  I  had  never  in  my  playful  moods  been  un- 
usually demonstrative  towards  him  in  her  pres- 
ence that  I  did  not  catch  her  eye  watching  in 
approbation.  Paul  had  been  her  favorite  always  ; 
from  a  lubberly  boy  to  a  great  awkward  man  she 
had  always  petted  him,  and  he  had  been  much 
more  of  a  gallant  to  her  than  to  me.     My  dear, 


1 64  MA  MELON. 

pretty  mamma!  How  many  fine  speeches  I  had 
heard  him  make  to  her  while  he  had  not  one  for 
me.  Sometimes  I  was  half  jealous  of  her,  as 
indeed  I  should  have  wholly  been  if  I  had  not 
known  that  she  loved  me  so  well  that  she  could 
love  no  one  else  better.  So  I  knew  that  she 
loved  Paul  only  less  than  I  did,  and  would  be 
supremely  happy  whenever  she  could  call  us  both 
her  children  in  truth,  as  she  had  done  in  sport 
for  so  many  years.  I  believe  I  thought  almost 
as  much  of  our  dear  mamma's  delight  in  thinking 
of  our  marriage  as  of  my  own. 

When  I  had  read  all  the  others  I  picked  up  the 
white  envelope  which  lay  at  the  bottom  and  saw 
that  it  was  directed  in  Paul's  hand.  How  guilty  I 
felt  as  I  opened  it,  that  I  had  let  the  great,  glaring 
trash  hide  this  jewel  from  my  eyes  !  It  was  only 
a  few  unpretentious  verses  signed  with  his  own 
name  by  my  "  true  Valentine,"  indeed.  I  can 
never  forget  a  word  of  those  lines,  but  no  one 
else  would  consider  them  remarkable — at  least, 
no  one  who  did  not  know  and  love  my  Paul. 

I  could  not  help  weeping  as  I  read  them  from 
very  joy,  and  could  only  answer  my  mother's  sur- 
prised, 

"  Why,  Susie,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  by  handing 


"A    WORD  IN  SEASON— HOW  GOOD  IT  IS T     1 65 

the  sheet  to  her  and  burying  my  face  in  her  lap 
as  she  read. 

Then  we  laughed  and  cried  together  over  the 
rough  halting  lines  and  agreed  that  he  ought  not 
to  be  required  to  serve  longer  for  his  Rachel 
We  were  old  enough :  I  was  twenty  and  Paul 
twenty-three,  and  both  had  ample  estates.  Be- 
sides, mamma  was  afraid  that  her  heart-disease 
might  carry  her  off  and  she  should  miss  seeing 
our  joy. 

'^  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  I  should  not  feel  as  if  I 
were  leaving  you  unprotected,  for  I  know  how 
strong  and  true  Paul  is ;  but  you  do  not  know, 
darling,  how  I  long  to  see  with  my  own  eyes  your 
union. 

So  we  two  loving  women  agreed  together  that 
my  lover  should  be  rewarded  for  the  tender 
words  of  his  first  valentine  by  having  the  period 
of  probation  shortened  and  an  early  day  named 
for  our  wedding. 

He  came  himself  in  the  evening.  I  met  him 
at  the  door,  saluted  him  with  mock  solemnity, 
ushered  him  into  the  sitting-room,  and  presented 
him  to  mamma  as  "  Sir  Valentine,  of  Oakland 
Villa!" 

He  bore  his  honors  meekly  and  asked  me  to  go 


1 66  MA  MELON. 

and  ride  with  him,  for  the  weather  was  as  balmy 
almost  as  May.  Oh !  how  happy  I  was  during 
that  long  canter !  I  was  sure  he  would  ask  me  to 
wear  the  other  ring  soon,  and  then  I  would  give 
him  his  reward  for  his  patient  waiting  and  his 
words  of  manly  love  and  tenderness  in  that  sweet 
valentine.  I  had  hid  it  in  my  bosom,  and  my 
heart  seemed  to  throb  with  joy  beneath  its  pres- 
sure. But  the  ride  ended  and  the  night  came, 
and  he  had  not  asked  me.  I  was  provoked  that 
he  would  not  see  how  I  longed  for  him  to  speak. 
1  sang  and  played  for  him,  and  soon  mamma 
pleaded  weakness  for  once  without  cause,  that  we 
might  be  left  alone.  Then  I  plied  all  my  reserved 
batteries  of  charms,  but  he  would  not  yield.  He 
was  kind  and  tender.  I  could  see  the  love  light 
dancing  in  his  blue  eyes,  but  he  was  silent  as  the 
Sphinx  upon  the  one  subject  which  engaged  all 
my  thoughts.  At  length,  while  he  sat  holding 
my  hand  in  both  of  his,  I  said  innocently  enough : 

"  Don't  you  think.  Cousin  Paul,  that  I  ought  to 
have  another  ring?" 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  as  coolly  as  if  it  were  a 
matter  of  every-day  occurrence,  "  I  have  the 
other  here ;"  and  he  drew  the  case  from  his 
pocket,  took  out  the  ring  and  held  it  between  his 


"A    WORD  IN  SEASON— HOW  GOOD  IT  IST    1 67 

thumb  and  finger.     Then  he  took  my  hand  as  if 
he  would  put  it  on. 

"  What !"  I  exclaimed,  withdrawing  my  hand, 
"  You  are  not  going  to  put  it  on  7iow,  are  you  ?" 

''  Yes,  why  not?" 

''  Why  not,  certainly !"  said  I,  very  much  dis- 
appointed at  his  cool  reception  of  the  favor  I  had 
granted  him.     "  It  might  be  well  to  try  it  on." 

I  laughed  nervously  in  my  vexation.  I  could 
have  cried  from  bitter  disappointment.  I  knew 
he  loved  me,  but  he  would  not  say  so.  I  could 
not  think  he  meant  to  pain  me,  but  I  was  so  sick 
for  love — for  a  sign  of  love.  If  he  would  only 
love  me — only  show  his  love — say  I  was  dear  to 
him !  So  I  held  up  my  hand  for  him  to  try  on 
my  wedding-ring  with  my  heart  full  of  sorrow 
and  wounded  love. 

*'  Which  finger  shall  I  put  it  on  ?"  he  asked. 

**  Why  this  one,"  I  answered  pettishly,  *'  as  if 
you  did  not  k7iow  on  which  finger  a  wedding-ring 
was  worn!" 

"Why,  Cousin  Sue  !  you  don't  mean — ?** 

I  thought  he  would  faint  for  an  instant,  then 
the  great,  strong  arms  were  wrapped  around 
me,  and  I  was  folded  to  his  heart,  while  kisses 
rained  on  lips  and  cheeks  and  brow  and  hair — a 


1 68  MA  MELON. 

blissful  shower  of  lovedrops — till  even  my  hungry- 
heart  was  sated. 

Would  you  believe  me,  girls,  the  stupid  fellow 
did  not  know  that  I  loved  him  at  all. 

He  had  heard  me  say  that  I  would  never  wear 
but  two  rings,  a  plain  gold  and  a  solitaire,  and 
never  thought  of  their  significance.  So  I  had 
done  all  the  wooing  at  last.  I  would  have  been 
angry  if  I  had  not  loved  him  so. 

It  was  too  late  then  to  waste  any  time  in 
regrets  if  indeed  I  had  been  inclined  to.  If  my 
lover  had  been  slow  in  his  wooing,  he  was  eager 
enough  to  make  amends  now. 

So  when  May  came,  with  her  lap  full  of  roses, 
Paul  and  I  were  married,  and  I  was  the  envy  of 
many  a  fair  girl  in  the  country  round,  who  came 
to  see  us  united.  If  I  was  proud  of  myself,  my 
husband,  my  home  and  all  that  surrounded  our 
bridal,  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at.  It  did  seem 
as  if  every  circumstance  which  could  tend  to  en- 
hance our  happiness  had  conspired  with  every 
other  joyful  event  to  crown  our  nuptials  with 
good  omen.  Two  broad  plantations,  lying  side 
by  side  upon  the  splashing  Dan ;  the  broad 
bottoms,  rich  witli  unnumbered  harvests ;  the 
rolling   uplands,    crowned    here    and    there   with 


*'A    WORD  IN  SEASON— HO IV  GOOD  IT  IS T    1 69 

tobacco-barns,  grim  and  unsightly,  but  suggestive 
of  a  wealth  of  golden  aromatic  leaf  which  few 
sections  could  rival  and  none  excel.  Few  would 
be  wealthier  than  we,  between  the  mountains, 
whose  shadowy  forms  hung  soft  and  misty  in  our 
western  horizon,  and  the  sea,  whose  steady  breezes 
came  to  us  in  summer  across  the  eastern  low- 
lands. Two  old  families,  closely  connected  but 
not  of  kin,  would  be  united  ;  and  two  households 
already  so  closely  joined  that  a  new  element  in 
either  must  have  disturbed  both,  would  be  still 
more  closely  linked  by  the  marriage  of  an  only 
son  and  an  only  daughter.  If  there  was  an  ele- 
ment of  happiness  which  was  not  found  in  our 
nuptials,  no  one  knew  it  then.  I  verily  believe 
there  was  but  one,  and  that,  alas  I  I  did  not  know 
for  many  years  afterwards.  We  had  been  play- 
mates and  friends  so  long,  yet  I  little  understood 
what  a  heart  was  being  bound  to  mine  by  the 
responses  in  the  marriage  service. 

Our  marriage  made  little  difference  with  our 
lives.  They  had  been  unconsciously  united  for 
many  years.  Before  that  Paul  had  lived  at  Oak- 
land and  visited  Hickory  Grove  daily ;  now  he 
lived  at  Hickory  Grove  and  visited  Oakland  daily 
— that  was  all.     Yet  both  were  homes  to  us.     We 


1^0  MA  MELON. 

had  no  care,  for  Paul's  father  attended  to  both 
estates  and  would  have  been  much  affronted  had 
his  son  offered  to  relieve  him  of  any  portion  of 
his  labors.  It  was  a  strange  life  we  led.  To  our 
parents  we  were  still  children.  They  would  not 
let  us  be  anything  else,  and  I  do  not  think  we 
were  anxious  to  dispel  the  illusion  which  those 
fond  hearts,  who  had  made  us  their  idols  for  so 
many  years,  still  threw  about  our  lives.  They 
took  the  burden  of  our  future  upon  themselves 
and  left  us  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  the  present. 
We  took  no  bridal  tour,  because,  Paul  said,  it 
would  be  too  bad  to  deprive  these  dear  ones  at 
home  of  the  sight  of  our  pleasure.  So  our  lives 
went  on  unbrokenly,  and  to  each  other  and  our 
parents  we  were  still  "  Cousin  Paul "  and  "  Cousin 
Sue/'  as  we  had  been  before. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


PRE-ADAMITE. 


T  T    must   not  be  supposed,  however,   that  we 
■^      were  idle  ;  at  least,  Paul  was  not. 

All  up  and  down  our  river  were  the  footprints 
of  an  extinct  race.  Our  beautiful  valley  was 
studded  with  the  relics  of  an  age  and  race  for- 
gotten, unknown,  unnamed.  Here  in  some  far- 
away time  seemed  to  have  been  the  seat  of 
empire  of  a  race  of  beings  unlike  any  other  races 
or  tribes  who  have  lived  within  the  ken  of  his- 
tory, in  their  habits  of  life  and  action,  surrounded 
by  circumstances  developing  powers  and  necessi- 
tating a  manner  of  life,  which  no  human  knowl- 
edge of  to-day  can  parallel  or  unravel — a  people 
displaying  only  the  arts  of  the  savage,  yet  erect- 
ing monuments  whose  durability  and  extent  are 
the  wonders  of  civilization.  Flint  arrow-heads, 
hammers,  and  pottery  cut  from  the  solid  rock  are 
washed  out  by  the  river-freshets  and  turned  up 
by  the  plowshare,  in  the  bottom-lands,  year  after 
year.     In  those  old  days  the  valleys  must  have 


172  MA  MELON, 

teemed  with  myriads  of  this  nameless  race.  Here 
they  Hved  and  fought  and  wrought,  and  from 
hence  they  disappeared  before  the  forests  grew 
or  the  Indians  chose  their  hunting  grounds. 

The  corn  grows  rank  and  high  in  the  bottoms 
year  by  year,  feeding  its  freshness  on  the  moh 
dering  antediluvians.  Curiously  enough,  I  have 
even  seen  the  fibrous  maize-roots  crowding  the 
openings  of  a  skull  from  which  some  famous 
artisan's  or  warrior's  eyes  may  have  looked  forth ; 
or  filling  the  cavity  in  which  some  sage's  brain 
may  have  throbbed  before  tradition  found  a 
tongue  or  history  began  to  count  the  ages. 
Chief  among  these  relics  were  several  mounds 
found  here  and  there  along  the  river,  and  first 
among  these  in  perfection  of  form  and  preserva- 
tion was  one  scarcely  a  bowshot  from  my  mother's 
home.  It  stood  upon  the  edge  of  the  second 
bottoms,  thirty  or  forty  yards  across  and  as  many 
feet  in  height ;  in  form  a  rounded  sugar-loaf,  and 
bearing  in  its  very  center  an  oak  which  was 
accounted  the  monarch  of  the  forest  for  miles 
around,  even  in  that  region  of  wide-branching 
oaks.  The  summit  and  slope  had  been  smoothed 
and  seeded  by  my  father,  and  some  smaller  trees 
had  been  encouraged  to  attempt  a  growth  in  the 


PRE-ADAMITE.  173 

shade  of  the  great  oak.  Some  rude  benches  had 
been  placed  about  the  foot  of  the  tree,  and  a 
rustic  staircase  led  to  a  quaint  summer-house 
which  was  built  upon  the  lower  branches  and 
around  the  trunk  of  the  great  oak.  Tended  with 
care  for  many  years,  this  mound  had  become  an 
island  of  leafy  green  amid  the  sea  of  grain  which 
in  the  summer  swelled  in  golden  billows  across 
the  valley  to  the  river's  edge,  and  had  been  a 
favorite  resort  for  Paul  and  myself  from  child- 
hood. We  called  it  Mamelon — a  name  by  which 
it  had  been  known  for  many  generations  in  the 
country  round. 

Paul  had  always  been  terribly  curious  about 
these  mounds,  and  especially  about  our  Mamelon. 
He  had  measured,  estimated  and  speculated  about 
it  for  years.  Who  built  it  ?  when  and  for  what 
purpose?  seemed  to  be  questions  which  rose  up  in 
his  mind  whenever  he  saw  its  green  sloping  sides 
or  oak-crowned  summit. 

Long  before  our  marriage  he  had  taken  up  an 
idea  that  he  would  know  all  that  could  be  learned 
of  that  strange  people,  who  had  dwelt  upon  our 
soil  so  many  years  ago  that  none  knew  when  they 
lived,  whence  they  came,  nor  how  or  why  they 
disappeared.    So  he  gathered  books  and  specimens 


174  MAMELON. 

of  their  handiwork,  arrow-heads,  hammers,  and 
spears,  and  the  curious  disks  with  which  he  thought 
they  played  some  game  of  chance  or  skill ;  he 
opened  some  of  the  mounds  along  the  river  bank, 
cutting  through  them  with  great  care,  noting  the 
position  of  everything,  finding  kettles  and  pipes 
and  skeletons  in  all  manner  of  positions  and  in  all 
degrees  of  perfectness.  So  that  Hickory  Grove 
soon  became  a  museum  of  antiquities,  and  one 
wing  of  it  an  involuntary  mausoleum  of  sev- 
eral distressed-looking  specimens  of  the  mound- 
builders,  who  had  been  carefully  taken  from  the 
places  that  had  known  them  so  long,  and  hung  in 
articulated  grandeur,  each  in  his  own  individual 
box.  So  Paul  became  a  man  of  science,  and  was 
just  as  patient  and  earnest  in  collecting  these 
curious  things,  and  in  making  surmises  from  them, 
as  other  men  are  in  what  they  term  business. 

I  must  confess  I  liked  it  too.  Not  that  I  would 
not  have  been  glad  if  he  had  been  incHned  to  what 
we  call  a  more  active  life.  I  thought  there  was  so 
much  strength  and  manhood  about  my  giantly 
Great-heart,  that  it  pained  me  right  often  to  think 
that  the  great  busy  world  was  going  on  and  pay- 
ing no  heed  to  his  life  or  thought.  There  was  no 
need  for  him  to  labor,  but  I  wanted  the  world  to 


PRE-ADAMITE.  1/^5 

feel  his  power.  I  was  half  sorry  that  he  was  not 
at  the  bar  and  would  take  no  part  in  politics.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  this  work  which  he  had  chosen 
was  only  fit  for  his  idle  hours,  his  recreation,  and 
not  erand  enough  to  be  the  sober  business  of  his 
Hfe. 

It  was  pleasant,  though,  to  go  with  him  and 
note  how  earnestly  he  worked,  and  how,  even  in 
these  sports  of  his  mind,  he  was  so  much  strong- 
er than  others.  How  often  I  noted  his  shrewd 
guesses  at  the  lives  and  habits  of  those  old-time 
dwellers  on  our  river  bank,  and  wondered  whether 
my  Paul  would  never  come  nearer  to  the  present, 
never  do  anything  grander  or  more  practical,  than 
guess  how  many  generations  it  took  to  pierce  a 
flinty  hammer-head,  or  what  was  the  use  to  which 
this  vanished  race  had  put  a  cuboid  discus.  It 
consoled  me  somewhat  that  he  knew  more  of 
these  things  than  anybody  else ;  and  I  was  proud 
enough  when  distinguished  strangers  came  to 
consult  him,  to  witness  his  excavations,  to  learn 
and  wonder  at  what  he  knew  of  this  self-buried 
and  long-forgotten  people.  I  was  proud  when  I 
saw  his  name  in  magazines  and  read  the  articles 
which  his  busy  pen  produced,  and  was  glad  to  aid 
him  by  making  drawings  of  whatever  implement, 


17^  MAMELON. 

bone,  or  relic  he  desired,  to  illustrate  his  writings. 
I  was  not,  though,  so  greatly  devoted  to  the  end 
he  had  in  view.  His  explorations  smacked  too 
much  of  the  charnel  house  for  me,  but  I  delighted 
to  be  with  him,  and  wandering  about  the  fields 
and  woods  was  but  a  continuation  of  the  sweet 
boy-and-girl  life  of  our  unmarried  days.  His 
"  hobby,"  as  I  called  it,  furnished  occupation  fof 
thought  and  a  pretense  for  long  rambles,  without 
care  and  only  the  healthful  fatigue  which  abun- 
dant exercise  in  air  and  sunshine  brings.  I  count- 
ed it  play.  I  was  half  sorry  that  my  giant  would 
waste  his  grand  strength  in  mere  curious  research  ; 
but  if  he  would,  I  was  glad  that  he  had  chosen 
one  so  innocent  and  healthful  that  I  could  join 
him  in  it  and  be  ever  at  his  side. 

The  predictions  with  which  our  married  life 
began  continued  to  be  made  in  regard  to  it.  All 
my  friends  thought  my  husband  a  model,  and 
it  was  a  matter  of  general  remark  that  we  were 
the  most  thoroughly  satisfied  couple  in  the  world, 
as  it  was  admitted  we  had  abundant  reason  to  be. 

I  never  could  get  thoroughly  interested  in  his 
relics,  though ;  and  to  amuse  myself  I  began  to 
pick  up  and  arrange  in  his  cabinet  the  pretty 
and  curious  stones  which  I   found   in  our  long 


PRE-ADAMITE.  177 

rambles.  I  had  never  studied  geology,  and  did 
not  do  this  from  any  love  of  science  or  from  any 
regard  for  the  rocks  themselves,  but  just  to  relieve 
the  ghostly  array  of  yellowish-brown  bones  and 
skulls  and  relics  of  the  tombs  upon  my  husband's 
shelves. 

Sometimes  my  Mentor  would  discourse  to  me 
upon  some  fragment  of  rock  I  had  picked  up  dur- 
ing the  day,  and  though  I  lacked  application  to 
study  and  speculate  as  he  did,  I  came  uncon- 
sciously to  have  considerable  interest  in  a  past 
so  remote  that  the  one  in  which  he  was  absorbed 
seemed  but  as  yesterday  in  comparison  with  it. 
So  it  came  about  after  a  time  that  there  was  an 
unclassified  geological  museum  mixed  up  with 
the  carefully  arranged  and  labeled  archaeological 
curiosities  at  Hickory  Grove.  Paul  used  to  inti- 
mate sometimes  that  I  ought  to  study  these 
things,  saying  that  I  had  a  taste  for  geology. 
But  I  thought  one  scientist  in  the  family  was 
enough,  and  I  loved  much  better  to  watch  him  at 
his  work  and  let  my  thoughts  play  truant  in  the 
past  which  might  have  been,  than  vex  my  poor 
brain  to  decide  what  it  was.  My  pictured  stones, 
odd  crystals,  and  quaintly  worn  pebbles  were 
pretty  enough  to  me,  without  trying  to  puzzle 


1/8  MAMELON. 

out  how  they  became  so.  Men  are  so  curious ! 
They  can  never  be  content  to  enjoy  things  as 
they  find  them.  They  must  know  how  they  were 
made,  and  why  ;  whether  there  are  any  more  such, 
and  where ;  and  perhaps  will  end  by  trying  to 
find  or  make  or  conceive  something  better  or 
rarer.  Women  are  called  curious,  too ;  but  they 
have  not  half  the  curiosity  of  the  sterner  sex.  I 
did  not  care  what  these  things  had  been,  and  when 
Paul  tried  to  make  me  study  them  in  a  quiet  way, 
by  lecturing  me  on  every  pebble  I  picked  up,  I 
quit  gathering  them,  or  did  it  only  by  stealth — to 
avoid  being  shown  to  be  such  an  ignorant  dummy 
as  his  lectures  always  made  me  think  I  was.  He 
was  so  wise  that  I  did  not  care  to  be  any  wiser, 
but  did  not  like  to  have  him  think  how  little  I 
knew  when  compared  with  him. 

I  do  not  think  he  would  ever  have  dared  to 
profane  our  beautiful  home-mound — dear,  leafy, 
green-carpeted  Mamelon  —  if  the  elements  had 
not  been  in  league  with  his  desires.  But  when 
the  lightning  had  blasted  our  oak  and  scattered 
our  pretty  rustic  house,  we  knew — mamma  and  I 
— that  the  mound  was  fated.  Paul  had  ex- 
hausted everything  else  far  and  near.  We  knew 
he  would  not  invade  it  unless  we  should  consent, 


PRE- A  DA  MI  TE.  1/9 

and  we  knew,  too,  that  we  could  never  withstand 
his  entreaties.  So  we  made  a  virtue  of  necessity, 
and  mamma  asked  him  one  day  why  he  did  not 
make  an  excavation  in  Mamelon,  pretending — art- 
ful woman — that  it  would  interest  her  greatly  to 
see  those  quaint  relics  of  a  wonderful  past  taken 
from  their  original  resting-place.  One  would  have 
thought  she  was  never  so  curious  about  anything 
as  the  origin  and  purpose  of  that  mound  and  the 
race  and  habits  of  its  builders — and  I  chimed  in 
with  a  timely  amen  at  every  pause  in  her  conver- 
sation. What  inveterate  deceivers  we  women 
are!  I  have  no  idea  that  mamma — the  sweet 
darling! — had  ever  dreamed  that  the  mound  was 
made  for  anything  except  evening  reveries  and 
moonlight  flirtations  until  our  irrepressible  Paul 
began  to  fill  his  head  and  the  house,  and,  as  a 
consequence,  our  hearts,  with  relics  of  the  mound- 
builders.  Of  course  he  needed  no  second  in- 
vitation. Poor  Mamelon  was  speedily  cut  and 
tunneled  and  scarred  into  scientific  unsightli- 
ness.  But,  oh!  what  treasures  he  found  within! 
Day  after  day  the  relics  poured  into  the  museum, 
and  Paul's  face  shone  unceasingly  with  the  rap- 
ture of  discovery.  In  his  joy  we  two  silly  women 
were  more  than  paid  for  our  loss. 


i8o  MA  melon: 

Thus  the  months  grew  into  years,  and  Paul's 
thoughts  seemed  to  have  all  centered  on  the  ante- 
diluvians and  their  works.  Our  lives  floated 
along  as  peacefully  as  the  hours  of  a  summer's 
day,  only  I  could  not  help  a  sort  of  dissatisfac- 
tion at  his  backward  tendencies.  In  a  way  I  was 
ambitious ;  and  it  always  hurt  me  to  think  of 
his  leaving  the  bright,  glorious  present  to  delve 
in  the  forgotten  past. 


CHAPTER   V. 


"the  minstrel  boy  to  the  wars  is  gone." 


A  T  length  there  occurred  something  which 
•^  -^  took  my  husband's  attention  even  from  the 
scientific  pursuits  in  which  he  had  been  so  ab- 
sorbed. There  began  to  be  a  talk  of  war.  I 
could  not  help  being  somewhat  amused,  as  well 
as  wholly  surprised,  when  I  first  saw  my  delving 
husband  turn  from  the  past  on  which  he  had  been 
so  intent  to  the  present  which  had  been  sweeping 
unheeded  by  him.  He  was  in  earnest,  though. 
Paul  never  played  at  anything.  When  he  gave 
himself  up  to  Secession  he  forgot  the  Mound 
Builders  entirely.  He  thought  only  of  what  he 
did,  and  did  only  what  he  thought  about. 

So  the  winter  slipped  away,  and  almost  for  the 
first  time  in  our  lives,  we  were  separated  in  our 
thoughts  and  work.  He  was  busy  and  absorbed 
in  the  interests  of  that  country  whose  existence 
he  seemed  but  just  then  to  have  discovered,  and 
he  went  back  and  forth  with  a  serious,  preoccu- 
pied air,  being  very  little  at  home.      I  was  much 


1 82  MA  MELON. 

surprised  and  by  no  means  displeased  when  he 
came  to  me  one  day  in  the  spring,  clad  in  uniform. 
I  did  not  anticipate  danger  nor  disaster.  I  thought 
there  might  be  some  fighting.  Of  course  there 
could  hardly  be  any  war  without  it,  but  he  would 
not  be  harmed,  and  I  felt  that  he  was  where  he 
ought  to  be — among  men.  He  would  be  felt, 
appreciated  and  prized,  I  thought,  in  that  relation. 
He  was  a  colonel,  he  told  me.  I  hardly  knew  the 
difference  between  colonel  and  sergeant  then.  I 
am  sure  I  thought  a  captain  outranked  them  both. 
I  expected  that  he  would  show  himself  a  hero, 
and  that  men  would  know  of  what  my  Paul  was 
capable.  It  was  not  very  patriotic,  but  I  thought 
more  of  Paul  than  of  the  country.  It  may  not 
have  been  so  with  other  wives  and  sweethearts. 
They  said  it  was  not,  I  know,  but  somehow  I 
never  quite  believed  them.  Anyhow,  with  me,  it 
was  Paul  first  and  the  country  afterwards,  and  a 
good  while  afterwards,  too 

Well,  he  went  away  and  the  war  came, — the 
terrible  war  which  was  so  different  from  what  my 
fancy  had  pictured  it, — so  full  of  suffering  and 
horror  and  so  fearfully  long !  It  seemed  to  my 
poor,  waiting,  weary  heart  that  it  would  never 
end !     No,  I  was  not  brave.     I  did  not  want  it  to 


''AIINSTREL  BOY  TO   THE  WAR  IS  GONE."     183 

go  on.  I  could  not  use  those  fierce,  boastful 
words  which  I  so  often  heard  from  other  fair  lips. 
When  others  talked  of  the  "  last  man  and  the  last 
dollar,"  my  poor,  weak  heart  would  only  hear  the 
*'  last  dollar,"  and  I  said  amen  to  that  right  gladly. 
I  would  have  given  up  the  last  dollar  and  the  last 
hope  of  the  brave,  bright  country  we  thought  we 
were  building  for  ourselves  and  our  children  in 
the  fair  South,  to  have  had  my  Paul  back  in  my 
arms  and  safe  from  the  dangers  of  those  horrible 
battles,  the  wearisome  marches  and  noisome 
camps — oh !  I  know  I  was  not  patriotic  !  I  was 
just  a  poor,  weak  woman,  who  loved  her  Paul — 
selfishly  and  foolishly,  no  doubt — ^and  cared  for 
little  else. 

The  days  and  weeks  and  months  dragged  weari- 
ly into  years,  and  still  the  struggle  waxed  and 
waned,  and  the  moments  were  burdened  with  an 
ever-increasing  weight  of  woe. 

I  do  not  mean  to  tell  you  in  detail  of  all  the  suf- 
fering and  sorrow  that  it  brought  to  me.  I  sup- 
pose every  heart  that  felt  the  scath  of  war  thought 
its  own  burden  heavier  than  any  other  knew.  I  had 
certainly  my  share  of  suffering.  I  knew  then,  but 
somehow  I  could  not  realize  it — my  heart  would 
not  acknowledge  it — that  my  lot  was  so  compara- 


1 84  MAMELON, 

lively  fortunate  that  I  ought  rather  to  rejoice 
than  murmur.  My  husband  was  wounded  more 
than  once,  it  is  true,  but  not  so  seriously  as  to  im- 
peril his  life,  and  he  was  winning  place  and  honor 
among  men  daily.  I  have  a  scrap-book  now 
which  is  full  of  what  was  said  and  written  about 
him  and  his  command.  Of  course  I  was  proud  of 
him  and  of  his  success  and  gallantry,  yet  somehow, 
— I  am  almost  ashamed  to  confess  it,  but  it  is  true 
— I  was  sorry  that  the  quiet  old  days  of  the 
Mound  Builders  were  passed.  I  used  to  go  into 
the  cabinet  and  dust  and  rearrange  the  skulls  and 
bones,  see  that  the  labels  did  not  become  loosened 
or  lost,  read  what  my  husband  had  written,  and 
fancy  that  he  was  once  more  with  me  and  engaged 
in  our  old  peaceful  pursuits.  I  had  been  ambitious 
and  discontented  in  those  old  days,  yet  I  sighed 
to  have  them  back  again  instead  of  the  turmoil 
and  terrors  of  war,  despite  the  glory  and  honor 
it  had  brought  to  my  Paul.  I  knew  I  was  weak 
and  contradictory  in  my  feelings  and  I  never 
claimed  to  be  otherwise. 

The  war  itself  was  so  distant  that  it  did  not 
disturb  our  home ;  yet  there  had  been  changes 
there.  A  blue-eyed  boy  came  to  my  arms  in 
the  first,  and  Paul's  father  was  among  those  that 


''MINSTREL  BOY  TO  THE  WAR  IS  GONE."     1 85 

slept  in  the  third,  year  of  the  struggle.  It  seemed 
hard  for  us  three  women  then  to  get  along  upon 
the  plantations  alone.  It  is  true  we  had  over- 
seers, and  it  might  seem  that  little  of  the  care 
would  fall  on  us.  Alas,  it  was  only  a  difference 
between  doing  directly  and  indirectly.  Is  there 
not  an  old  Latin  inquiry  which  runs  something  in 
this  wise,  Qiiis  custodict  custodes  ?  I  thought  we 
might  have  guessed  that  riddle  then.  I  was 
foolish ;  but  I  allowed  these  little  troubles  to 
worry  me  greatly. 

I  had  thought  little  of  the  results  of  the  war. 
I  had  little  fear  in  regard  to  them.  I  knew  our 
fortunes  w'ere  desperate ;  but  I  had  so  much 
confidence  in  Paul  that  I  could  not  believe 
he  w^ould  fail.  I  think  I  had  a  sort  of  dull, 
blind  faith  that  the  Confederacy  would  succeed, 
and  an  expectation  that  its  success  would  be 
mainly  due  to  my  Paul.  I  wonder  if  I  was  the 
only  woman  in  all  the  South  who  had  such 
foolish  dreams.  Yet,  I  did  not  think  so  much  of 
this.  I  wanted  the  war  to  end,  in  order  that  I 
might  have  Paul  at  home  again.  I  did  not  once 
think  what  we  would  be,  or  how  situated,  if  we 
should  fail. 

At  length  the  spring  came  once  more,  and  the 


1 86  MAMELON. 

very  air  seemed  full  of  forebodings.  Rumors  of 
strife  and  defeat  came  daily  and  hourly.  All 
waited  for  the  end  which  a  universal  prescience 
indicated  to  be  close  at  hand.  Few  made  any 
preparations  to  '^  pitch  a  crop,"  under  the  appre- 
hension that  Yankees  would  harvest  it  if  they 
did. 

So  the  days  went  by  until  at  length  there  came 
along  the  roads,  from  the  northward,  scattering 
soldiers,  with  dejected  looks,  weary  and  worn, 
with  sad,  disheartened  tales  of  battle  and  defeat. 
They  had  given  up,  and  were  going  to  their 
homes,  convinced  that  all- was  lost.  Of  the  fate 
of  those  who  had  stayed  behind  they  could  give 
no  hint — or  not  more  than  a  hint,  at  least.  Gradu- 
ally these  scattered  units  grew  into  a  straggling, 
disintegrated  host,  and  the  South  Side,  Peters- 
burg, and  at  length  Appomattox,  became  sounds 
of  overwhelming  but  familiar  horror.  We  knew, 
we  realized  then,  that  all  was  lost !  Lee  had 
failed !  The  Army  of  Virginia  was  broken, 
routed !  The  end  had  come  !  Then  I  knew  tnat 
somewhere  among  the  debris  of  a  scattered  nation 
was  my  Paul,  alive  or  dead,  broken  or  whole — I 
knew  not !  For  the  first  time,  then,  I  believe,  I 
fully  felt   what  war  was,  and   wondered   that  I 


*' MINSTREL  BOY  TO   THE  IV A R  IS  GONE:'     1 87 

could  have  been  so  careful  and  anxious  about  a 
thousand  trivialities  while  its  terrible  facts  were 
being  wrought  out  around  me  by  those  I  knew 
and  loved. 

This  terrible  apprehension,  however,  thank 
God !  was  but  brief  in  its  duration.  In  the 
gray  twilight,  as  I  sat  before  the  fire  in  the 
old  sitting-room,  I  heard  the  tramp  of  a  horse 
upon  the  lawn  and  the  whinney  of  old  Bob,  the 
thoroughbred,  whom  Paul  had  ridden  away  four 
years  before.  I  knew  it,  and  in  an  instant  was 
out  of  the  room,  across  the  porch,  and  down  the 
steps.  A  drooping  figure  was  dismounting  from 
the  faithful  horse,  whose  strength  had  scarcely 
been  sufficient  to  bring  his  master  home.  How 
I  clasped  the  sinking,  dusty  figure,  with  kisses 
and  tears  and  hysteric  laughter,  it  would  be  weak 
to  tell.  I  dragged  him  into  the  sitting-room  at 
once,  and  had  off  his  worn  and  soiled  uniform, 
with  its  general's  stars  upon  the  collar,  and  all 
that  the  house  afforded  of  cheer  and  com.fort  was 
brought  to  make  my  Paul  welcome  home.  Xet 
all  did  not  bring  a  smile  to  his  face.  He  had 
kissed  me  absently  when  I  first  went  out,  and 
had  given  a  cold  embrace  to  mamma  when  he 
came  in ;  but  he  did  not  seem  to  realize  that  he 


1 88  MA  MELON. 

was  at  home.  I  prattled  and  bustled  about,  but 
could  bring  no  warmth  to  his  voice  or  eyes. 
Finally,  I  brought  the  little  son,  whom  he  had 
never  seen,  and  put  him  in  his  father's  arms. 
Then  the  hopeless,  horrible  stolidity  went  out  of 
Paul's  face,  and  a  flash  of  intensest  anguish  suc- 
ceeded it,  as  he  said  : 

''  Do  you  know,  darling,  that  we  are  ruined, 
that  all — all  is  lost?" 

He  put  his  hands  over  his  face,  groans  and  sobs 
convulsed  his  frame,  and  tears  fell  upon  the  won- 
dering, upturned  face  of  his  boy.  I  had  never 
seen  Paul  manifest  any  emotion  before,  and  I 
was  terrified  at  the  intensity  of  his  grief.  I 
stood  for  a  moment,  stunned  at  what  I  saw, 
and  then  cast  my  arms  about  his  neck,  saying 
impulsively : 

*'  O  Paul,  you  have  me  /*' 

My  heart  was  saying,  "  I  have  fou/*  and  it  was 
little  I  cared  for  the  cause  that  was  lost,  now  that 
my  Paul  had  returned  safe  to  my  arms.  Of  course 
I  could  not  speak  so  slightingly  of  what  moved 
him  so  deeply,  and,  not  knowing  what  I  could  say 
to  comfort  him,  I  only  offered  him  my  weak,  silly 
self. 

It  seemed  to  touch   him   though,  for  he  put 


''MINSTREL  BOY  TO   THE  WAR  IS  GONE:'     1 89 

down  the  boy,  clasped  me  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
me  tenderly  on  the  lips  as  he  said : 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  have  you,  and  you  alone,  to 
live  for  now." 

I  had  never  dreamed  that  his  soul  was  so 
wrapped  up  in  the  cause  he  had  served. 


CHAPTER   VI. 


"poortith's  portion  cauld." 


T  T  had  never  occurred  to  me,  in  my  dreaming, 
"^  that  when  the  war  should  end  we  could  not 
go  back  to  the  old  life,  until  I  saw  how  utterly  it 
had  obliterated  all  that  went  before  from  the 
memory  and  heart  of  Paul.  He  had  given  himself 
unreservedly  to  the  Confederate  cause  ;  for  four 
years  he  had  had  no  thought  of  which  it  was  not 
an  essential  ingredient,  and  he  had  twined  his 
future  with  its  fate  so  inseparably  in  all  his  plans 
and  schemes  that  he  could  not  now  bring  himself 
to  consider  a  future  in  which  it  had  no  place.  I 
had  regretted  once  that  he  had  so  little  ambition, 
and  when  I  saw  now  how  completely  ambition 
had  occupied  the  chambers  of  his  heart  I  could 
not  but  feel  punished  for  my  former  discontent. 
He  seemed  to  have  lost  all  interest  in  the  future 
and  to  have  forgotten  that  there  was  any  past 
save  that  brief  interval  when  the  "  stars  and  bars" 
floated    above    their   unfaltering   defenders.      He 


'' POORTITWS  PORTION  CAULDr  I9I 

brooded  forever  over  their  defeat,  and  could  see 
no  hope  nor  Hght  in  the  future.  He  shrank  from 
his  fellows  and  seemed  imbued  with  a  morbid 
dread  of  the  turmoil  and  bustle  of  business.  He 
seemed  to  look  forward  to  no  future  for  himself 
or  his  children.  More  than  all  he  seemed  to  take 
no  delight  in  my  presence  and  to  care  nothing  for 
my  wishes.  At  least  so  it  appeared  to  me.  It  is 
true,  he  never  tired  of  gazing  at  me,  and  would 
sit  for  hours  with  his  sad  brooding  eyes  follow- 
ing my  every  motion,  but  he  would  not  enter  into 
any  of  my  plans  or  take  any  interest  in  what  I 
proposed  to  do.  His  old  joking,  bantering  ways 
were  gone.  He  never  even  made  pleasant  blund- 
ers now. 

It  hurt  me  terribly  at  first  to  think  that  I  had 
lost  all  power  to  console  or  cheer,  and  gradually 
my  grief  turned  to  anger.  I  thought  he  was  so 
selfish  and  heartless  to  dodge  the  cares  and  re- 
sponsibilities of  the  future  because  he  had  been  in- 
volved in  one  great  failure.  I  thought  it  could  be 
no  harder  for  him — a  great  strong  man,  who  had 
shown  himself  able  to  pluck  honor  and  fame  from 
the  very  brow  of  defeat — than  for  me,  a  weak  help- 
less woman.  I  did  not  consider  how  a  man  loves 
as  his  own  child  a  nation  he  has  helped  to  create. 


192  MA  MELON'. 

I  even  became  very  angry — God  pity  me  that  I 
^was  so  blind — that  he  should  give  way  to  misfor- 
tune and  waste  his  life  in  vain  regrets  for  an  irre- 
trievable past. 

So  I  grew  cold  and  hard  towards  him ;  our  lives 
swung  away  from  each  other,  and  while  yet  under 
the  old  roof-tree  we  were  separated  a  thousand 
times  farther  than  when  he  was  in  the  army.  I 
never  knew  how  it  came  about,  but  I  began  to 
regard  Paul  with  something  of  contempt,  and  to 
think  of  him  as  an  insignificant  figure  in  that 
future  which  must  be  met  by  every  one.  I  did 
not  hate  him,  perhaps  I  even  loved  him  more 
tenderly  than  ever,  but  I  thought  of  him  as  one 
who  had  needlessly  deserted  from  the  battle 
of  life.  All  the  pride  I  had  in  him  before 
went  out,  and  I  only  regarded  him  as  a  weak 
and  kindly  failure,  a  hopeless  victim  of  hypo- 
chondria. 

It  is  true  there  was  abundant  reason  for  de- 
sponding. Those  who  were  not  present  to  view 
the  struggle  which  confronted  the  people  of  the 
South  after  the  war  can  hardly  understand  it. 
Not  only  was  all  our  slave  property  gone,  but  all 
debts  builded  on  the  faith  of  such  property  were 
generally  valueless.     The  fact  that  a  new  system 


'' POORTITirs  PORTION   CA  ULD."  I93 

of  labor  must  be  relied  on  to  make  the  lands  pro- 
ductive exerted  so  depressing  an  influence  that 
thousands  of  plantations  went  for  a  song.  Those 
who  were  rich  before,  who  had  never  dreamed 
that  they  would  ever  be  required  to  labor  for  a 
support,  were  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  do  so. 
Stock  to  work  with  was  scarce,  labor  uncontroll- 
able and  the  future  uncertain.  Under  these 
circumstances  perhaps  any  one  who  had  been 
always  accustomed  to  luxury  and  ease  might 
well  have  despaired.  But  this  was  not  all  in  our 
case. 

The  estate  of  Paul's  father  had  not  been  settled. 
Paul  had  himself  appointed  administrator  as  soon 
as  the  courts  were  open,  and  began  an  examination 
of  the  affairs  of  the  estate,  I  think  with  the  hope 
of  finding  something  which  might  improve  our 
fortunes.  Alas,  he  was  doomed  to  bitter  dis- 
appointment. The  estate  of  Wilson  Dewar  aside 
from  his  plantation  had  been  accounted  in  ante- 
war  days  considerable.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
war  he  had  owned  several  hundred  slaves,  and  was 
considered  to  have  been  worth  more  than  a  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars.  Here  is  the  schedule 
which  Paul  made  out  after  a  long  and  patient  in- 
vestigation of  his  father's   affairs,  after  laying  off 


194  MA  MELON. 

what  is  termed  a  ''year's  support  for  the  widow," 
his  mother, — it  is  old  and  worn,  but  legible  : 

Available  Assets: 
1740  acres  of  land  with  life  estate  of  widow  on  one 

third,  say $17,400 

Proceeds  of  sale  of  personality 1,200 

Old  bank  bills,  worth  about  6  cents  on  a  dollar 1,000 

Solvent  credits 2, 500 

$22,100 
Unavailable  Assets: 
One  barrel  full  of  Confederate  money  and  bonds  and 

State  securities  tainted  with  rebellion 75, 000 

Bills  of  sale  of  212  slaves  liberated  by  Lincoln's  proc- 
lamation      150,000 

Individual  notes  and  bonds  rendered  worthless  by  the 

results  of  the  war 40, 000 

$265,000 

Total  known  liabilities 74,ooo 

Unproved  old  debts,  probably 6,000 

$80,000 

"  In  other  words.  Sue,"  he  said  bitterly,  when 
he  had  shown  it  to  me,  ''  the  estate  of  Wilson 
Dewar  will  not  pay  twenty-five  cents  on  the  dol- 
lar, and  you  are  married  to  a  pauper  who  does 
not  know  how  to  do  anything  to  support  you  ex- 
cept fight  and  play  gentleman.  And  worse  than 
all.  Sue,  your  own  estate,  which  my  father  held 
as  your  guardian,  has  been  swallowed  up  in  the 


"  FOORTITH'S  PORTION   CAULDr  1 95 

general  wreck,  and  you  have  nothing  in  the  world 
now  except  this  plantation,  with  nobody  and 
nothing  to  work  it  with.  My  father  having  car- 
ried on  both  plantations,  nearly  all  the  stock  be- 
longed to  his  estate,  and  must  be  sold  to  pay  his 
debts.  You  might  better  have  married  an  over- 
seer, Sue.  He  could  at  least  have  worked  and 
made  bread  and  meat  for  you." 

He  rose  and  left  the  house  before  I  could  say  a 
word.  I  was  completely  astounded  at  what  he 
had  told  me.  To  think  that  we  were  actually 
poor;  that  we  had  only  our  old  home  plantation, 
with  no  means  of  working  even  that,  was  a  most 
overwhelming  thought.  We  had  not  been  accus- 
tomed to  what  in  one  of  our  Northern  cities  in 
these  later  days  would  be  termed  an  extravagant 
mode  of  life.  Few  even  of  the  wealthiest  nabobs 
of  slave  aristocracy  were  inclined  to  anything  like 
the  display  which  shoddy,  petroleum  and  stock- 
gambling  have  made  familiar  to  us  since  the 
social  deep  burst  its  bounds  and  the  barriers  of 
society  were  swept  away.  [Some  of  us  looked 
hard  at  the  others  as  she  spoke,  but  the  little 
lady  did  not  seem  to  know  that  she  was  hitting 
any  of  our  circle,  and  evidently  was  quite  uncon- 
scious  of  the  fact  that  wc   might  view  the  up- 


196  MA  MELON. 

heaval  of  which  she  spoke  in  an  altogether  differ- 
ent hght.  So  no  one  made  any  remark.]  We  had 
just  Hved  in  plain,  healthy,  up-country  planter  style, 
conscious  that  we  could  have  whatever  of  luxury 
we  desired,  but  content  with  our  horses  and  family 
carriage,  a  half  dozen  or  so  of  extra  servants,  and 
an  almost  entire  freedom  from  care  or  responsi- 
bility of  any  kind.  Probably  no  aristocracy  which 
the  world  has  ever  seen  contented  itself  with  so 
cheap,  healthy  and  rational  amusement  or  in- 
dulged so  little  in  enervating  luxuries. 

Genuine  comfort  and  the  unrestrained  enjoy- 
ment of  natural  delights  marked  the  tendency  of 
the  slave  aristocracy  rather  than  mere  display  or 
luxuries  which  depend  on  a  spirit  of  rivalry 
rather  than  a  desire  for  enjoyment.  Men  worth 
hundreds  of  thousands  lived  in  houses,  and  drove 
equipages,  which  a  well-to-do  Northern  farmer 
would  hardly  consider  fit  for  his  occupancy.  No 
one  did  anything  simply  to  outstrip  his  neighbor. 
There  was  little  of  envy  among  that  class,  but  a 
prevailing  idea  of  comfort  and  an  abiding  indis- 
position to  exertion.  We  lived  for  enjoyment, 
but  our  pleasures  were  simple,  unostentatious, 
healthful. 

Therefore  it  was  that  the  slave-holding  aristoc- 


'' POORTITirS  PORTION  CAULDr  197 

racy  of  the  South  was  so  fine  a  race  of  men  and 
women  physically.  Whatever  there  was  of  dissi- 
pation was  cured  by  repose  and  exercise  in  the 
open  air,  not  violent  nor  under  the  whip  and  spur 
of  necessity,  but  leisurely  and  habitual.  Except- 
ing some  families  who  were  enfeebled  by  inter- 
marriage, they  were  certainly  the  finest  race,  in 
their  physical  attributes,  which  has  resulted  from 
the  European  occupancy  of  American  soil.  The 
men  were  large  and  harmoniously  developed  ;  not 
worn  by  useless  struggle  with  the  world,  nor 
dw^arfed  by  exotic  culture  or  absorbing  vices. 
The  ladies — well,  it  does  not  become  me  to  say 
much  of  them  ;  but  I  have  often  thought,  when  I 
compared  our  out-door  assemblies  of  rosy-cheeked, 
round-limbed,  unrestrained,  natural  girls,  with — 
well,  dears,  you  know  I  mean  no  disparagement ; 
but  while  Northern  girls  may  be  smarter  and 
brighter  in  a  way,  we  do  think  our  Southern  ones 
are  healthier  and  stronger  than  those  victims  of 
long  winters,  close  rooms,  tight  stoves,  and  a 
forced  hot-house  system  of  education. 

But  we  were  not  well  versed  in  the  arts  of  self- 
support.  Our  luxury  had  consisted  largely  in 
having  the  burdens  of  life  lifted  from  our  shoul- 
ders, and  we  were  not   trained  in  bearing  them. 


198  MAMELON. 

A  Northern  family,  reduced  from  almost  any  po- 
sition in  life,  who  yet  had  a  good  plantation, 
with  health  and  youth  still  left  to  them,  would 
not  have  felt  themselves  utterly  prostrated.  We 
had  always  had  so  many  to  do  for  us,  and  knew 
so  little  how  to  do  for  ourselves,  that  we  were 
very  nearly  helpless.  With  the  science  and  art  of 
oversight  we  were  familiar.  No  one  can  direct 
others  with  so  little  care  and  so  great  effect  as  the 
old-time  master  and  mistress  of  the  plantation. 
But  now  we  had  no  one  to  direct. 

.Many  of  our  former  slaves  would  have  remained 
with  us,  but  we  did  not  feel  justified  in  hiring 
many  since  we  had  nothing  to  pay.  Of  course 
we  could  not  feed  them  longer,  for  we  looked 
with  apprehension  at  the  rapidly  diminishing 
stores  we  had.  We  had  made  some  preparations 
for  a  crop  before,  but  it  was  impossible  to  carry 
out  our  intentions,  for  want  of  money  to  obtain 
our  supplies. 

It  all  came  upon  me  In  an  instant  as  I  sat  there 
after  Paul  had  gone  out  that  day.  We  were  poor. 
Even  the  overseers  whom  we  had  been  wont  to 
hire  were  richer  in  the  power  of  self-support  than 
we.  It  is  true  we  had  the  plantation,  but  it  was 
worth   but    little   without    the    labor   which    had 


"FOORTITH'S  PORTION  CAULD:'  I99 

made  it  profitable.  It  is  true  we  could  even  with 
our  own  labor  raise  enough  to  prevent  actual 
want,  but  it  must  be  at  the  sacrifice  of  our  old 
lives.  We  must  become  manual  workers,  and 
know  nothing  of  that  leisure  we  had  loved  and 
enjoyed  so  long.  Not  only  that,  but  we  must 
learn  to  labor  and  look  only  to  ourselves  for  what 
we  had.  It  seemed  a  terrible  loss  of  caste,  too. 
The  distinction  between  high  and  low  hitherto 
had  been  compulsory  labor.  There  is  a  general 
idea  that  manual  labor  was  accounted  menial  and 
degrading  among  us.  It  was  not  that  at  all, — it 
was  the  necessity  of  labor  which  marked  the  divid- 
ing line.  The  man  who  was  not  compelled  to 
labor  might  delve  unremittingly ;  he  might,  as  it 
were,  enslave  his  children,  making  them  co-laborers 
with  the  slave  without  either  of  them  losing 
caste  by  it ;  but  if  such  labor  was  necessary 
for  their  support  they  were  branded,  with  more 
or  less  rigorousness  according  to  locality,  as  pooTy 
and  were  esteemed  accordingly. 

That  I  was  utterly  prostrated  by  this  thought 
is  not  to  be  wondered  at.  I  rushed  to  my  own 
room  and  cried  all  the  evening,  quite  forgetful  of 
Paul  and  the  effect  of  this  on  him.  It  was  late 
when  he  came  in  to  supper,  and  I  must  have  pre- 


200  MA  MELON. 

sented  a  disconsolate  appearance  as  I  sat  behind 
the  great  coffee-pot  which  had  resumed  its  wonted 
dignity  at  our  Southern  country  suppers  now  that 
the  blockade  was  over  and  real  coffee  sent  its 
aroma  over  the  board  again.  I  wonder  how 
many  Southern  families  spent  the  first  green- 
backs they  ever  saw  for  cofTee.  I  hardly  know 
one  who  did  not. 

But  the  coffee  was  not  good  enough  to  keep 
Paul.  He  gave  one  glance  at  my  tear-stained  face 
and  then  went  out  into  the  darkness.  I  knew  he 
had  gone  on  account  of  my  demeanor,  yet  I  felt 
so  discouraged  and  humiliated  that  I  would  not 
go  after  him  and  call  him  back.  My  own  misery 
filled  my  heart  so  full  that  I  could  not  think  of 
his.  The  supper  was  over  and  the  hours  crept 
on,  but  he  did  not  come.  I  sent  a  servant  to 
search  for  him,  but  he  could  not  be  found.  I 
hardly  cared :  I  even  blamed  him  for  adding  to 
my  sorrow  by  his  conduct.  He  did  not  come 
that  night,  and  I  sobbed  and  moaned  myself  to 
sleep. 

The  next  morning  I  learned  that  he  had  taken 
his  breakfast  very  early  and  had  gone  out  on  the 
plantation.  He  did  not  come  home  at  noon,  but 
sent  to  the  cook  for  his  dinner.     In  the  evening  I 


''POORTITH'S  PORTION  CAULD."  201 

went  out  to  see  why  he  had  stayed  away  all  day. 
I  wandered  on  until  I  came  to  the  new  ground, 
and  there  I  saw  my  Paul  working  in  the  tobacco 
side  by  side  with  the  niggers, — working  his  old 
war  horse  Bob,  who  seemed  to  be  quite  contented 
in  his  degradation. 

You  may  think  I  was  much  affected  by  what  I 
saw  and  so  I  was,  but  not  as  you  suppose,  nor  as 
I  ought  to  have  been.  I  was  angry, — angry  at 
Paul  too.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
humiliate  me  still  further.  I  sat  down  in  the 
bushes  at  the  edge  of  the  wood  and  cried  and 
moaned  bitterly. 

Why,  I  thought,  could  he  not  do  something 
else,  if  he  must  work !  Why  not  engage  in  some 
genteel  employment?  He  might  be  an  Insurance 
Agent  or  a  "  Runner"  for  some  mercantile  house 
or, — or — anything  else  but  a  laborer. 

I  went  back  to  the  house  with  a  sadly  unjust 
and  bitter  heart.  Paul  came  to  supper  that  night 
all  worn  and  weary,  his  hands  blistered  and  both 
body  and  soul  prostrated  with  fatigue  and  help- 
lessness. I  saw  it,  but  I  did  not  spare  or  cheer 
him.  I  poured  out  on  his  head  the  same  re- 
proaches I  had  conned  over  when  I  saw  him  toih 
ing  in  the  hot  sun.     I  accused  him  of  not  loving 


202  MA  MELON. 

me  and  of  trying  to  humiliate  and  degrade  me 
still  further.  Oh  !  I  don't  know  what  I  did  not 
say  to  him  that  was  mean  and  aggravating,  but  I 
went  too  far  at  last.  I  had  never  seen  him  angry 
before  and  I  am  sure  I  never  shall  again. 

*'  Mrs.  Dewar,"  he  said, — only  think  of  his  call- 
ing me  Mrs.  Dewar, — "  Mrs.  Dewar,  I  am  not 
responsible  for  any  of  the  misfortunes  that  have 
befallen  you  except  your  marriage  with  me, 
which  you  seem  so  much  to  regret.  I  shall 
endeavor  to  prevent  your  feeling  the  blow  which 
has  so  humiliated  you,  but  must  take  my  own 
way  to  do  it." 

I  was  so  amazed  that  I  could  not  speak  another 
word  during  supper,  and  after  that  was  over  he 
went  off  to  the  wing  of  the  house  in  which  his 
old  relics  were,  and  slept  that  night — and  indeed 
always  afterwards,  until  a  time  you  shall  hear 
about,  long  after  ;  for  that  foolish  quarrel  sepa- 
rated Paul's  heart  and  mine  all  but  forever.  I  was 
too  proud  to  confess  that  I  was  wrong  and  he  had 
no  idea  that  he  was  in  any  error, — and  I  do  not 
know  that  he  was.  He  could  not  make  any 
allowance  for  my  sorrow  and  weakness,  and  I  had 
no  idea  what  was  in  his  heart. 

So  two  years  passed  and  we  were  as   strangers 


POORTITH'S  PORTION  CAULD."  20 


'> 


to  each  other.  Then  my  mother  died,  and  for  a 
time  it  seemed  as  if  we  were  going  to  resume  our 
old  tender  relations  to  each  other.  But  he  was 
too  busy  with  his  plantation  work  to  give  me  the 
time  and  attention  he  bestowed  in  the  old  days, 
so  I  went  back  to  the  thought  I  had  so  long 
cherished  that  I  had  come  to  believe  its  truth — 
that  he  did  not  love  me.  This  belief  had  been 
strengthened  by  the  tenderness  which  he  had  all 
along  shown  to  my  mother.  God  forgive  me,  I 
think  I  was  jealous  of  her,  even  in  her  grave. 
Her  repeated  solicitations  that  I  should  be  recon- 
ciled to  Paul — her  praises  of  him — her  reproaches 
of  me — had  all  along  rankled  in  my  heart.  So  I 
gave  myself  up  to  my  child,  and  he  worked  the 
plantation  by  day  and  stayed  in  the  old  cabinet 
by  night. 

I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it,  but  as  his  hands 
grew  harder  and  he  gathered  the  roughness  and 
uncouthness  that  accompany  manual  toil  I  began 
to  feel  a  sort  of  contempt,  almost  disgust,  for 
him  which  nearly  made  me  cease  to  regret  our 
estrangement.  During  this  time  however  we  had 
prospered  wonderfully,  when  compared  with  our 
neighbors.  Paul  had  made  splendid  crops,  had 
worked  a  large  force  and  received  verj-  remunera- 


204  MAMELON. 

tive  prices  for  what  he  had  made.  The  planta- 
tion had  increased  in  value  and  been  greatly  im- 
proved, and  all  the  time  there  had  been  no  added 
care  upon  me.  I  had  been  lavishly  supplied  with 
servants  and  had  every  comfort  of  the  old  life 
except  the  sense  of  abundant  wealth  and  the  un- 
told luxury  of  love. 

I  tried  many  times  to  come  nearer  to  my  hus- 
band, but  he  seemed  so  cold  and  absorbed  that  I 
could  not  succeed.  My  old  Paul  seemed  to  be 
dead.  All  that  he  had  loved  or  enjoyed  before 
seemed  to  be  laid  aside  and  forgotten.  He  would 
never  speak  of  the  war,  and  would  get  angry  if 
any  one  gave  him  any  of  the  titles  he  had  won 
therein.  He  would  be  plain  Paul  Dewar,  nothing 
more,  nothing  less,  he  said,  hereafter.  Some- 
times he  would  spend  an  hour  with  us  in  the 
family  room  after  supper,  and  then  the  careworn 
anxious  look  would  come  into  his  eyes  and  he 
would  hurry  off  to  his  cabinet.  He  was  always 
kind  to  me,  but  never  tender  or  demonstrative. 
He  had  never  spoken  harshly  to  me  but  once,  but 
he  was  so  busy  that  I  could  not  make  him  seem 
like  my  Paul  of  the  old  days, — so  I  fretted  and 
pined  and  pitied  myself  as  if  I  had  been  a 
martyr. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


NORTHERN     LIGHTS. 


A  FTER  one  of  Paul's  visits  to  our  market 
-^•^  town,  he  came  home  bringing  with  him  a 
stranger,  whom  he  introduced  to  me  as  "  Captain 
Dickson."  He  was  a  man  rather  below  the  me- 
dium height,  very  erect  in  figure,  with  a  full 
square  head,  wide  mouth,  heavy  firm  jaw,  a  close 
cropped  dark  beard,  short  hair  just  beginning  to 
show  a  steely  gray  among  its  darkness,  shaggy 
beetling  brows  with  keen  blue  eyes  beneath.  I 
knew  as  soon  as  I  saw  him  that  he  was  of  North- 
ern birth,  what  we  call  a  Yankee,  and  you  may 
well  imagine  from  what  I  have  said  of  myself  that 
I  was  not  inclined  to  welcome  him  over-cordially. 
There  was  a  sort  of  restlessness  of  manner,  to- 
gether with  that  unfailing  look  of  eager  watchful- 
ness which  is  found  in  the  eyes  of  every  man  who 
has  had  to  struggle  with  the  world  from  boyhood 
— a  condition  so  usual  with  the  Northern  man 
that  the  look  has  become  generic — an  appearance 
of  being  ever  on  the  alert,  which  I  think  has  given 


206  MA  MELON. 

rise  to  the  tradition  of  the  Yankee's  keenness  and 
shrewdness.  The  conflict  with  man  and  nature  in 
the  warfare  of  existence  or  with  his  fellows  in  the 
race  for  wealth  and  power  leaves  always  its  indel- 
ible impress  on  the  features.  Usually  this  was 
absent  from  the  face  of  the  Southern  man  of  the 
better  classes  because  such  struggle,  if  it  comes  to 
him  at  all,  comes  only  when  he  has  arrived  at  ma- 
turity, and  the  features  have  lost  their  plastic  and 
impressible  character.  With  the  Northern  man 
of  almost  any  grade  it  begins  early  and  is  unceas- 
ing. Therefore  it  is  that  our  Southern  idea  of 
the  Yankee  is  of  one  who  sees,  thinks  and  acts 
with  the  utmost  readiness  of  body  and  mind.  He 
is  quick,  stirring,  restless.  The  idea  that  he  is  in- 
quisitive, prying,  comes  less,  I  think,  from  his 
habit  of  asking  questions  than  from  his  constant 
watchfulness.  It  is  undoubtedly  true  that  one  of 
them  will  learn  more  about  a  family,  a  neighbor- 
hood or  a  business  without  asking  a  question  than 
one  of  our  people  by  a  week's  inquiry.  In  that  I 
think  the  Yankees  have  been  belied.  I  think  they 
ought  properly  to  be  deemed  the  people  who 
learn  everything  and  ask  nothing. 

However  that  may  be,  Captain  Dickson  was  a 
Yankee  ;  his  honest,  candid,  yet  watchful  and  cau- 


NORTHERN  LIGHTS.  20/ 

tious  face  told  me  that,  when  his  eyes  met  mine 
and  measured  me  in  an  instant,  before  I  heard  or 
at  least  comprehended  Paul's  explanatory  com- 
ment following  the  name  of  the  stranger,  ''  from 
Massachusetts." 

I  said  that  I  did  not  receive  him  over-cordially 
— I  did  not  mean  that  I  had  any  hostility  towards 
him  because  he  was  a  Yankee,  but  only  a  sort  of 
embarrassed  feeling  that  he  was  of  another  people. 
This  has  always  been  true  of  North  and  South ; 
they  have  always  been  two  peoples.  Touching  in 
territory,  identical  in  language  and  united  in  gov- 
ernmental forms,  but  distinct  and  separate  in 
habits  of  life  and  thought.  I  felt  that  Captain 
Dickson  was  on  his  guard  as  a  stranger,  and  I  was 
also  on  guard  towards  him.  I  did  not  feel  that 
easy  cordiality  which  I  think  peculiarly  marks  the 
demeanor  of  Southern  people  towards  each  other, 
that  ease  and  familiarity  akin  to  the  unrestrained 
freedom  of  the  home-circle. 

However,  I  listened  to  the  conversation  between 
him  and  Paul,  and  learned  very  soon  that  he  had. 
come  for  the  very  purpose  of  exercising  his  pecu- 
liar Yankee  gift  of  observation.  He  was  looking 
about  to  see  if  any  unobserved  end  of  profit  might 
be  picked  up  in  our  quiet  agricultural  community- 


208  MA  MELON. 

He  had  an  idea  that  some  undeveloped  industry 
might  be  found  for  which  the  region  afforded  pe- 
culiar advantages.  He  did  not  know  what.  He 
had  come  with  no  preconceived  idea  of  what  he 
would  do,  but  was  ready  to  turn  to  whatever  might 
offer.  He  proposed  to  see  what  might  be  done 
with  advantage,  before  he  set  about  doing  any- 
thing. He  was  not  an  educated  man,  in  the  sense 
we  generally  use  that  word,  yet  I  was  surprised  to 
see  how  much  he  knew  of  the  world's  industries, 
and  I  soon  saw  that  even  Paul  was  no  less  sur- 
prised than  I.  He  discussed  the  tobacco  market 
and  prospects  with  Paul  with  a  breadth  and  sa- 
gacity of  view  which  was  amazing  to  us,  who  had 
been  raised  in  constant  consideration  of  this  inter- 
est, when  he  told  us  that  he  had  never  bought, 
raised  or  owned  a  pound  of  the  weed  in  his 
life.  His  attention  being  directed  Southward, 
he  had  studied  up  its  industries  and  had  con- 
firmed the  impressions  thus  received  by  obser- 
vations since.  Showing  liim  our  Indian  cabinet, 
my  husband  was  astonished  at  the  accurate  de- 
scription which  he  gave  of  some  mounds  which 
had  recently  been  cut  into  by  a  high  freshet  on  a 
neighboring  river,  which  he  had  seen  a  few  weeks 
before. 


NORTHERN  LIGHTS.  209 

Every  species  of  implement  and  machinery  was 
familiar  to  him.  He  knew  enough  of  every  branch 
of  manufacture  to  be  willing  to  undertake  what- 
ever promised  reasonable  profit.  I  never  learned 
how  he  came  to  be  thrown  into  my  husband's 
society,  or  how  when  once  brought  together  they 
came  to  prove  so  mutually  attractive.  For  several 
days  he  remained  with  us  without  seeming  to 
arrive  at  any  definite  conclusion  as  to  what  he 
should  undertake.  He  and  Paul  rode  and  walked 
and  talked  with  an  unintermitting  earnestness 
which  I  could  not  but  smile  to  see.  At  length  he 
began  to  examine  the  timber,  and  they  gathered 
pieces  of  oak  and  hickory  and  dogwood  and 
persimmon,  until  the  porch  at  Hickory  Grove 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  transformed  into  a  wood- 
shed. Then  he  inquired  about  roads  and  the 
place  of  shipment,  the  price  of  the  raw  material, 
and  investigated  very  carefully  the  source  of  sup- 
ply and  its  extent. 

During  all  this  time  he  said  not  a  word  of  the 
purpose  of  this  inquiry.  We  knew  he  was  think- 
ing of  establishing  some  business,  but  we  had  no 
idea  what.  At  length  when  he  seemed  to  have 
fully  determined  on  his  course  he  said  to  Paul, 
one  morning  as  they  sat  on  the  porch, 


210  MA  MELON. 

*'  Well  Mr.  Devvar,  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
what  to  do !" 

''  Ah !  what  may  it  be  ?"  inquired  Paul  some- 
what curiously. 

*'  I  shall  put  up  an  establishment  somewhere  in 
this  section  to  turn  hard  woods." 

*'  To  what?'*  asked  Paul  in  anoazement. 

"  To  work  up  these  hard  white  woods,"  an- 
swered Dickson. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Paul  politely. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Dickson,  "  to  make  axe,  pick, 
sledge  and  hammer  handles,  mallets,  spokes,  hubs 
and  whatever  else  there  may  be  a  demand  for, 
out  of  your  hickory,  persimmon  and  other  fine 
woods." 

"  Indeed  !"  said  my  husband,  and  there  was  a 
tone  of  contempt  and  incredulity  in  his  voice 
which  I  was  confident  would  not  escape  the  notice 
of  his  companion  ;  nor  did  it. 

He  got  up  and  walked  once  or  twice  across  the 
porch  before  answering  Paul's  exclamation. 

*'  You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Dewar,  if  you  think  I 
am  either  jesting  or  a  fool.  Every  one  of  these 
white  hickory  butts  with  which  your  plantation 
and  section  is  studded  is  worth  a  price  which 
would  seem  fabulous  to  you." 


NORTHERN  LIGHTS.  211 

"What  is  that  price?"  asked  Paul  still  incredu- 
lously. 

*'  From  ten  to  twenty  dollars  a  cord,"  answered 
Dickson. 

"  What !"  asked  Paul,  now  thoroughly  aroused. 
"You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  they  can  be  made 
worth  that  here  !'* 

"  Undoubtedly,"  answered  Dickson.  "  I  will 
take  every  hickory  butt  on  your  plantation  over 
six  inches  in  diameter,  as  soon  as  I  can  get  under 
way  here,  at  ten  dollars  per  cord." 

"  Why  there  are  a  thousand  cords  on  this  plan- 
tation alone !"  said  Paul. 

"  I  do  not  care  if  there  are  ten  thousand !"  an- 
swered Dickson  with  energy ;  "  the  more  the 
better  at  that  price." 

"  But  it  can  be  bought  here  at  a  much  less 
price,"  said  my  husband. 

"  Perhaps  for  a  short  time  that  may  be  true," 
said  Dickson,  "but  the  price  will  soon  range  at 
about  ten  dollars  on  account  of  the  labor  of  cut- 
ting and  hauling.  You  see,  only  one  or  two  '  cuts  ' 
from  the  butt  of  each  tree  can  be  used.  The  tree 
must  be  sawed  down,  because  that  heavy-grained 
swell  at  the  very  butt  of  the  tree  is  by  far  more 
valuable  than  any  other  part.     They  are  heavy, 


212  MAMELON. 

hard  things  to  handle  and  draw,  so  that  the  whole 
matter  of  getting  the  timber  out  is  one  of  hard 
work.  If  a  man  gets  anything  for  his  timber 
standing,  he  must  have  about  ten  dollars  for  it  at 
the  mill." 

"  And  do  you  think  there  is  a  demand  for  all  the 
handles,  and  the  like,  which  could  be  made  out  of 
these  forests  of  hickory?"  asked  Paul. 

"  Now,"  said  Dickson,  "  let  me  tell  you  this  is 
not  a  matter  of  a  moment's  thought  with  me.  I 
have  studied  it,  thoroughly  and  carefully. '  You 
see,  when  the  war  came  on  I  was  in  a  business  that 
promised  me  a  fortune,  I  thought.  I  had  always 
worked  hard  and  done  well, — very  well,  I  thought, 
for  a  man  who  had  his  own  way  to  make, — and 
had  got  together  some  money  a  year  or  two  be- 
fore the  war.  I  had  a  chance  to  put  this  into  a 
business  which  I  supposed  would  have  left  me 
independent  before  this  time,  and  given  me  a 
chance  to  start  my  children  without  their  having 
to  work  as  hard  as  I  had  done.  My  wife  had 
worked  hard  too  ;  not  rough  dragging  work,  it  is 
true ;  but  she  had  engineered  the  household  as  few 
women  can,  and  had  made  my  dimes  go  further 
than  many  another  man's  dollars.  She  had  al- 
ways kept  up  good  heart,  too,  and  I   never  came 


NORTHERN  LIGHTS.  21 3 

home  tired  and  discouraged  that  I  did  not  find 
her  bright  and  cheery,  and  I  started  out  next  morn- 
ing stronger  and  more  determined  than  I  had 
ever  been  before.  So  you  may  well  imagine  I  was 
anxious  to  make  a  fortune  in  order  that  she  mi2:ht 
enjoy  it." 

The  captain's  dark  face  shone  tenderly  as  he 
spoke  thus  of  his  wife,  and  I  will  own  that  one  of 
his  listeners  forgot  at  that  instant  his  nativity. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  ''the  war  came  on  and 
our  business  happened  to  be  one  of  those  which 
suffered.  We  held  up  as  long  as  we  could,  but 
finally,  in  the  spring  of  '62,  I  sold  out  one  day  to 
my  partners  for  just  enough  to  keep  my  wife  and 
children  comfortable  for  a  year  and  pay  off  a  bal- 
ance on  the  house  and  lot  I  had  bought,  and  went 
and  enlisted. 

"The  next  day  I  was  off,  and  during  the  re- 
mainder of  the  war  I  was  all  the  time  in  some 
part  of  the  South.  Of  course  I  brooded  on  my 
loss  a  good  deal.  My  few  thousands  were  not 
much  in  themselves,  but  they  were  all  I  had,  and 
it  was  hard  to  think  of  having  to  go  again  through 
all  the  struggle  they  had  cost  me.  However,  I 
knew  I  must  do  it ;  and  as  I  always  expected  the 
war  to  end  just  as  it  did  I  had  my  eyes  open  to 


214  MAMELON, 

see  what  chance  there  might  be  for  a  man  to  pick 
up  a  good  thing  down  here.  Being  a  wood- 
worker by  trade,  I  naturally  looked  at  the  timber, 
among  other  things.  I  was  struck  with  the  pine 
that  grows  along  the  coast ;  but  that  requires  a 
heavy  capital  and  a  good  deal  of  time  to  turn  out 
a  heavy  profit,  and  I  have  some  doubts  about  it, 
then.  There  is  a  good  thing  in  the  black  walnut 
and  white  pine  of  the  mountain  region  when  it 
becomes  accessible — -but  that  is  away  off  yet ;  so 
I  turned  my  attention  to  the  hard  woods  of  the 
lower  slopes,  where  there  are  rivers  and  railroads 
to  fetch  and  carry  to  and  from  the  mill.  I  made 
up  my  mind  when  we  marched  through  this  At- 
lantic slope  that  there  was  many  a  fortune  in  these 
low-branching  tough  wide-grained  oaks  and  hick- 
ories. I  was  not  sure  that  the  time  for  making 
them  had  quite  come,  however,  because  I  did  not 
know  but  there  might  still  be  a  plenty  of  them 
nearer  the  established  seats  of  trade  and  manu- 
facture. Well,  when  the  war  was  over  I  found 
that  the  few  hundreds  I  had  left  my  wife  to  live 
upon  had  increased  in  her  hands  until  I  had  a  snug 
little  capital  to  begin  life  with  again.  I  was  full  of 
this  idea ;  but  determined  not  to  make  another 
slip  by  not  knowing  all  about  my  business,  so  I 


NORTHERN  LIGHTS.  21 5 

took  up  a  sort  of  make-shift  business,  for  the 
time,  and  set  myself  to  find  out  all  about  hard 
woods  and  their  uses.  I  have  been  about  two 
years  at  it,  and  I  think  I  know  pretty  much  all 
there  is  to  be  learned  on  the  subject.  I  am  about 
as  well  versed  in  that  as  you  are  in  the  Indian- 
grave-yard  business." 

Paul  winced  a  little,  but  still  smiled  and  was 
flattered,  as  I  saw,  by  the  ready-witted  reference 
of  this  practical  man  to  his  old  hobby. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE     WHITE      WOODS. 

"  '^T^  H  E  amount  of  hard  woods  or  '  white  woods' 
-*-  as  they  are  called  in  trade,  in  contradis- 
tinction to  the  resinous  woods  and  gums,"  said 
Dickson,  **  which  are  used  in  one  form  or  another 
in  the  mechanic  arts,  in  agriculture,  and  domestic 
life,  is  simply  astounding  to  one  who  has  never 
considered  the  matter.  You  have  only  to  think 
how  many  handles  of  one  sort  and  another — axe, 
pick,  spade,  plow,  hatchet,  hammer,  etc. — are  used 
on  your  own  plantation,  and  apply  that  scale  to 
the  agricultural  proprietors  of  the  world,  to  see 
that  one  element  of  your  incredulity  is  more  fanci- 
ful than  real.  Then  you  have  but  to  consider  the 
vast  number  of  mechanical  pursuits  in  which  these 
are  indispensable.  Think  of  the  number  of  sledge 
and  hammer  handles  that  must  be  worn  out  in 
making  cars,  boilers,  and  engines,  of  the  pick  han- 
dles that  must  be  had  to  build  railroads,  grade  and 
pave  streets,  dig  tunnels,  sink  shafts,  mine  iron 
and  coal  in  Pennsylvania  and    England,  gold  in 


THE    WHITE    WOODS.  21/ 

California  and  Australia,  and  silver  In  Montana, 
and  you  will  have  some  idea  of  the  vastness  of  the 
uses  of  even  handles  alone.  But  this  is  only  one 
of  the  various  forms  in  which  this  product  of 
nature  is  daily  consumed  by  the  insatiable  de- 
mand of  civilization.  Cogs,  pulleys  and  mallets, 
spokes  and  hubs,  shuttles  and  bobbins,  and  a 
thousand  specific  devices  for  saving  time  or  labor, 
must  be  made  out  of  these  woods.  Take  the 
single  item  of  shuttles.  There  are  not  more  than 
a  half-dozen  shuttle-makers  in  the  United  States, 
and,  so  far  as  I  know,  they  manufacture  only  for 
our  home  use ;  and  you  are  aware  that  but  a  small 
proportion  even  of  our  own  cotton  crop  is  spun 
and  woven  here.  Yet  I  have  just  filled  a  contract 
for  persimmon  blocks  to  make  into  shuttles  for 
one  of  these  firms,  which  made  nearly  forty  car- 
loads. 

'■'■  Think  now  of  the  innumerable  vehicles  all  of 
which  are  to  be  supplied  with  spokes  and  hubs, 
rims  and  felloes,  shafts,  axles,  spring-bars,  coup- 
ling-poles, and  other  essential  parts.  You  should 
remember,  too,  that  there  is  no  present  likelihood 
of  there  being  any  substitute  found  for  such 
woods  in  these  uses.  There  will  never  be  a 
metallic  handle  for  a«xe  or  pick.    The  elasticity  and 


2l8  MA  MELON. 

lightness  of  wood  are  essential  in  all  these  uses. 
In  others  still  other  qualities,  as  a  lack  of  friction 
or  imperfect  conduction,  are  necessary.-  Shuttles 
must  be  made  of  a  closely-knit  wood  which  may 
be  worked  very  thin,  yet  remain  firm  and  light 
and  take  a  very  high  polish.  Mallets,  as  for  the 
use  of  stone-cutters,  must  be  made  of  a  heavy, 
close-grained,  elastic  wood,  which  will  not  splinter 
nor  become  indented  from  a  long  succession  of 
hard  blows  upon  the  chisel  head.  There  are  but 
few  kinds  of  wood  which  are  adapted  to  any  of 
these  uses.  Foremost  among  them  all,  as  the 
great  mechanical  wood,  is  the  hickory.  Its  white- 
ness, hardness,  toughness,  elasticity  and  durability, 
together  with  its  capacity  to  assume  a  reasonable 
finish,  and  almost  absolute  freedom  from  splinters 
or  checks,  give  it  easily  the  supremacy  over  all 
other  hard  woods.  It  is  true  that  in  some  of  the 
uses  to  which  these  woods  are  devoted  the 
hickory  is  not  as  good  as  some  others.  It  would 
not  make  as  good  a  shuttle  as  the  persimmon,  as 
good  a  plane-stock  as  the  apple,  as  good  a  stamp 
or  roller  as  the  maple,  as  good  an  engraving 
material  or  as  fine  rings  or  croquet  balls  as  the 
box  or  dogwood ;  but  while  these  woods  excel  it  In 
these  peculiar  uses,  they  are  useless  in  a  thousand 


THE    WHITE    WOODS.  219 

others  where  the  hickory  is  unapproachable.  As 
a  material  for  all  classes  of  handles,  light  spokes,  ' 
rims  and  shafts — in  short,  whenever  both  stiffness 
and  lateral  elasticity  are  required  together,  it 
is  without  a  rival.  It  is  among  woods  what 
steel  is  among  metals.  Two  kinds  of  oak,  the 
white  and  post,  are  sometimes  used  for  the  grosser 
purposes  in  which  the  qualities  of  hickory  are 
required,  as  large  spokes,  felloes,  etc.,  as  well  as 
many  other  purposes  to  which  it  is  peculiarly 
adapted.  The  ash  is  the  only  other  elastic  handle 
wood,  and  its  tendency  to  split  between  the  grains, 
as  well  as  its  unreliability,  its  variableness  in 
quahty,  make  it  undesirable  except  for  a  few  pur- 
poses— as  the  spade,  pitchfork,  and  the  like — where 
lightness  is  a  requisite.  Where  solidity  only  is 
required,  the  beach,  maple,  holly,  apple,  and  a  few 
other  woods  may  be  used.  Among  the  best  of 
these  inelastic  woods,  however,  is  the  persimmon 
and  dogwood. 

''  Not  only  are  there  few  woods  adapted  to  such 
purposes,  but  soil  and  climate  make  remarkable 
differences  in  the  qualities  of  even  these  varieties. 
When  I  spoke  of  hickories,  the  other  day,  you 
wanted  me  to  go  on  the  river-bottom  to  see  those 
which  grew  there.     I  went  because  I   thought  it 


220  MA  MELON. 

would  gratify  you,  knowing  very  well  that  only 
an  inferior  quality  of  hickory  would  be  found 
there.  The  heavy,  close-grained,  low,  wide- 
branching  hickory  of  the  upland  is  the  cream  of 
this  variety.  The  same  is  true  of  the  oak.  Your 
old  field  hedge-row  white  oak  is  the  finest  quality 
of  oak  in  the  world.  Your  upland  hickory,  grown 
upon  a  brownish-red  soil  with  a  dark,  round  rock 
abounding  in  it,  is  the  finest  specimen  of  this 
variety  I  have  ever  seen.  At  one  time  the  hick- 
ory of  the  New  England  hills  was  celebrated  for 
strength  and  elasticity ;  but  this  has  almost  dis- 
appeared. The  hickory  of  Western  New  York, 
known  as  Genesee  Valley  hickory,  was  also,  for  a 
time,  the  leading  wood  of  the  trade ;  but  this  is 
gone  too.  Perhaps  the  best  of  all  these  was  that 
grown  along  the  banks  of  the  great  lakes,  but 
that  also  has  become  extinct.  Then  the  river 
and  creek  bottoms  of  the  West  were  put  under 
contribution  to  supply  the  demand  for  this  wood; 
but  it  was,  in  the  main,  of  poor  quality.  Mean- 
time, as  you  know,  the  South  was  shut  out  from 
competition  in  this,  as  in  a  thousand  other  indus- 
tries, by  the  fact  of  slavery.  So  it  results  that 
while  New  England,  the  Middle  and  Western 
States  have  been  almost  denuded  of  their  stock 


THE    WHITE    WOODS.  221 

of  available  hard  woods,  the  Southern  States  have 
a  bountiful  supply,  yet  untouched,  and  of  the  best 
quality,  on  both  sides  of  the  AUeghanies,  and  ex- 
tending from  the  banks  of  the  Ohio  and  Big 
Sandy  to  the  shoals  of  the  Tennessee,  and  from 
the  knobs  of  Kentucky  to  tide-water  in  the  Caro- 
linas. 

"  Europe  never  had  any  wood  to  compare  with 
our  hickory  in  its  peculiar  qualities,  and  is  now 
without  any  supply  of  hard  woods  which  need  be 
taken  into  consideration.  Her  stock  of  spokes, 
handles,  etc.,  must  come  from  abroad.  What  the 
forests  of  South  and  Central  America  might  sup- 
ply in  this  line  it  is  impossible  to  say.  They  are 
for  the  present  beyond  the  range  of  commercial 
venture. 

"■  You  see,  therefore,  Mr.  Dewar,  that  the  main 
supply  of  hard  woods  for  the  world  must  come, 
probably  for  the  next  fifty  years,  from  that  por- 
tion of  the  United  States  lying  south  of  the  Ohio 
and  Potomac  rivers." 

"  It  would  seem  so,^  said  Paul  thoughtfully. 

"  Oh  I  there  is  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Dickson. 
"  Such  hickory  as  that,"  he  added,  throwing  a 
pebble  against  an  old  gray-backed  tree,  which 
stood  against  the  lawn,  "  would  be  worth  forty 


222  MA  MELON. 

dollars  a  cord  in  New  York  or  Connecticut  to- 
day." 

**  How  many  handles  would  that  tree  make  ?'* 
asked  Paul  curiously. 

"  I  can  tell  you  in  a  minute,"  said  the  captain, 
as  he  sprang  up,  drew  a  rule  from  a  cunning  little 
pocket  in  the  leg  of  his  trousers,  went  down  to 
the  tree  and  measured  its  diameter.  Then  glanced 
sharply  up  and  down  the  trunk,  went  around  it, 
tapping  the  bark  familiarly  with  his  rule,  seem- 
ingly making  a  mental  calculation  as  he  came 
back  to  the  porch.  "  About  four  dozen  axe,  if 
there  are  no  knots  or  checks  in  it,  perhaps  as 
many  more  sledge,  and  twice  as  many  hatchet  or 
hammer  handles." 

*' And  what  would  they  be  worth?"  asked  Paul. 
.  "  They  would  average  about  two   dollars  per 
dozen  at  present  prices,  I  think,"  said  Dickson. 

I  saw  that  my  husband  was  making  calculations 
now. 

Then  the  process  and  cost  of  manufacture  and 
sale  were  discussed  at  length,  and  the  plans  of 
the  enterprising  Yankee  fully  explained. 

''And  how  much  capital  will  this  require,  Mr. 
Dickson,  asked  Paul. 

**  Almost   any  amount   can    be  profitably  em- 


THE    WHITE    WOODS.  223 

ployed,"  answered  the  other;  "but  I  think  such 
an  establishment  might  venture  to  start  on  about 
ten  thousand." 

''And  have  you  that  amount?"  Paul  asked. 

"  I  can  put  in  about  half  that  at  this  time,  but 
have  no  doubt  I  shall  be  able  to  find  some  one 
who  will  be  willing  to  put  in  the  rest." 

''No  doubt,"  said  my  husband  musingly — and 
then  they  went  back  to  a  further  discussion  of 
the  details  of  the  projected  business. 

Before  it  was  concluded  my  husband  had  de- 
termined to  become  a  partner  with  his  guest,  if 
he  could  secure  the  funds.  Somehow  I  had  a 
notion  that  it  would  not  be  an  entire  success, 
though  I  could  not  tell  why,  but  I  saw  it  pleased 
Paul,  and  I  was  anxious  that  he  should  turn  his 
attention  to  something  not  quite  so  slavish  as  he 
made  his  plantation  work.  So  I  was  almost  glad 
that  he  thought  well  of  this  venture. 

That  night,  after  our  guest  had  retired,  I  went 
into  the  cabinet  where  Paul  sat  at  his  desk  with  a 
sheet  of  paper  all  covered  with  calculations  before 
him,  and,  putting  my  arm  on  his  shoulder,  I  said : 

"You  think  well  of  this  man's  idea,  Paul?" 

"  I  cannot  see  why  it  is  not  a  sound  one,"  he 
replied. 


224  MA  MELON. 

*'  And  you  would  like  to  engage  in  it  with  him," 
I  continued. 

*'  If,  upon  examining  the  matter  for  myself,  I 
found  his  statements  and  estimates  correct,  I 
would,"  he  said — adding  regretfully,  "  if  I  had 
the  means." 

"  Could  you  not  borrow  the  amount  ?"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"  Ah  !  Sue,  it  is  not  now  as  in  the  old  times — 
any  one  who  borrows  money  now  must  give  good 
security  and  pay  a  high  rate  of  interest. 

''  Could  you  afford  to  borrow  for  this  purpose 
if  you  had  the  oportunity?"  I  asked. 

''  I  think  I  could,"  he  replied. 

Then  I  hinted  at  what  I  had  meant  to  say  from 
the  beginning.  I  know  my  voice  had  been  trem- 
bling in  all  those  questions,  and  the  hand  on  his 
shoulder  would  not  lie  still,  do  what  I  might. 

''  There  is  the  plantation,  Paul ;  might  not 
that?" — I  stopped,  for  I  could  go  no  farther. 
There  was  something  in  my  throat,  and  my  heart 
beat  so  wildly  that  I  could  not  utter  another 
word.  I  had  all  a  Southern  woman's  love  for  her 
home,  and  all  the  instincts  of  my  class  rose  up  in 
opposition  to  the  idea  of  hazarding  the  old  place 
on  a  speculative  venture. 


THE    WHITE    WOODS.  22$ 

Paul  had  heard  and  comprehended  both  words 
and  tears  at  length.  He  sprang  up  and  caught 
me  by  the  wrists,  with  a  grasp  which  liked  to 
have  crushed  them.  Yet  nothing  ever  pleased  me 
more  than  to  feel  that  fierce  grasp.  The  tears 
rained  down  my  face,  but  they  were  tears  of  joy, 
as  he  must  have  seen  as  he  peered  down  into  my 
eyes.  I  believe  my  cheeks  must  have  burned  like 
a  bride's  receiving  her  husband's  first  kiss,  I  was 
so  rapturously  happy  in  my  sacrifice,  for  so  I 
counted  it. 

"  Oh,  you  would  not,  Cousin  Sue — you  could 
not,"  he  said  eagerly,  "  risk  this  old  plantation  in 
such  a  venture." 

"  I  would  do  anything  to  please  you,  Paul,"  I 
said,  trying  to  get  my  head  on  his  breast.  But  he 
held  me  off  and  said : 

"No,  no.  Cousin  Sue,  it  is  not  because  I  wish 
to  speculate  nor  even  because  I  care  for  wealth 
myself,  that  I  desire  to  do  this,  but  because  I 
seem  to  see  a  way  to  restore  you  to  the  comforts 
and  position  you  have  lost.  I  would  give  my 
heart's  blood,  darling,  to  see  you  have  the  means 
of  gratifying  every  wish  again,  and  it  is  because 
this  enterprise  seems  to  offer  an  opportunity  for 
this  that  I  was  wishing  to  engage  in  it." 


226  MAMELON. 

"Then  certainly  I  ought  to  be  allowed  to  con- 
tribute," I  said,  desperately  wrenching  my  hands 
loose,  and  burying  my  head  on  his  bosom,  sobbed 
hysterically.  His  arms  closed  about  me  in  a  clasp 
which  was  a  benison,  and  that  night  my  head  was 
pillowed  on  his  breast  once  more. 

I  think  that  Yankee  captain  must  have  thought 
there  had  been  some  necromancy  about  Hickory 
Grove  over  night,  for  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes 
off  me  at  breakfast ;  and  when  Paul  offered  to 
engage  in  the  business  with  him,  if  it  prom- 
ised well  after  examination,  he  was  thoroughly 
astounded.  Paul  went  North  and  came  back 
quite  satisfied,  as  I  knew  he  would  be;  for  I  had 
no  doubt  the  captain  was  in  earnest  and  perfectly 
sincere,  and  I  had  no  idea  that  Paul  would  see, 
in  such  a  matter,  anything  that  had  escaped  his 
observation. 


CHAPTER   IX. 


WIZARDRY. 


T  T  was  very  soon  arranged.  The  plantation  was 
-*•  mortgaged,  the  money  borrowed,  and  Paul 
Dewar  and  Hiram  Dickson  became  partners  in 
the  business  of  the  manufacture  and  sale  of 
handles,  mallets,  spokes,  etc.,  from  hickory  and 
other  hard  woods. 

Captain  Dickson  did  not  belle  my  first  impres- 
sion. Whatever  faults  he  may  have  had,  a  want 
of  energy  and  application  was  not  among  them. 
Before  the  ink  was  dry  with  which  they  signed  the 
contract  of  partnership,  he  had  broken  ground  for 
the  building  which  he  had  already  planned.  Early 
and  late  he  was  on  the  ground,  superintending 
everybody;  planning  this,  directing  that,  and 
urging  everything.  He  was  fruitful  in  expedients 
and  never  at  a  loss  for  means  to  do  anything  he 
wished  to  accomplish. 

In  an  incredibly  short  time  as  It  seemed  to  me, 
and  to  every  one  who  had  been  accustomed  only 
to  our  deliberate  way  of  doing  things,  the  building 


228  MAMELON. 

was  Up,  the  machinery,  partly  bought  and  partly 
made  under  his  direction,  was  in  position,  a  great, 
well  dug,  engine  set  up,  a  huge  chimney  built,  and 
the  river  hills  for  miles  around  resounded  with  the 
piercing  whistle  which  called  the  hands  to  work. 
Mr.  Dickson  was  fond  of  saying  that  time  was 
money ;  and  surely  no  one  more  fully  compre- 
hended that  truism  than  he.  Even  before  the 
building  was  completed,  indeed  before  it  was 
hardly  begun,  he  had  advertised  through  all  the 
country  for  hickory  and  persimmon  timber,  and  for 
several  weeks  the  great  white  hickory  logs  had 
been  going  past  the  Grove,  drawn  by  all  sorts  of 
teams  and  in  all  sorts  of  quantities.  The  well-to- 
do  farmer  with  his  three  or  four  horses  brought 
his  cord,  or  the  poor  cropper — colored  or  white — 
with  his  mule  or  horse,  or  yoke  of  steers,  or  per- 
haps mule  and  ox  yoked  together,  or  even  the  ox 
alone  in  harness,  brought  one  stick,  or  two,  or 
more,  as  he  might.  It  mattered  not  to  Hiram 
Dickson  in  what  quantities  it  came.  His  rule 
was  always  at  hand  and  his  keen  eye  scanned  and 
graded  each  stick,  noting  its  imperfections  or 
excellences  and  estimating  its  value  accordingly. 
So  that  when  the  last  brick  was  laid  on  the  top  of 
the  huge  chimney,  the  great  engine  in  its  place. 


WIZARDRY.  229 

and  the  lathes  and  saws  in  position,  there  was  a 
great  pile  of  hickory  logs  about  the  building, 
waiting  for  the  hungry  teeth  which  were  within 
to  tear  and  rend  them. 

At  length  the  factory  was  in  operation,  and  I 
experienced  a  childish  delight  in  watching  it  as  it 
transformed  rough  logs  into  piles  of  smooth  white 
handles.  I  used  to  take  my  little  boy  and  sit  for 
hours  watching  the  busy  machinery  until  every 
portion  of  it  became  almost  as  familiar  to  me  as 
to  those  who  had  it  in  charge.  I  think  the  fact 
that  I  loved  to  watch  it  gave  Paul  an  additional 
interest  in  his  new  employment.  At  any  rate  he 
soon  became  much  absorbed  in  its  success  and 
anxious  to  promote  its  activity.  Somehow  it  did 
not  hurt  me  to  see  him  going  about  in  that  busy 
factory — though  roughly  dressed  like  the  opera- 
tives— as  it  had  to  see  him  delving  on  the  planta- 
tion. It  was  false  to  all  the  traditions  of  my 
class,  I  knew,  but  it  did  seem  to  me  a  higher 
style  of  labor  than  the  other.  Some  of  our  old 
neighbors  laughed  at  my  enthusiasm  over  the  fac- 
tory, and  I  could  but  confess  that  I  was  perfectly 
fascinated  with  it.  They  thought  it  was  the  pros- 
pect of  sudden  wealth  which  charmed  me,  but  I 
think  that  had  Uttle  if  anything  to  do  with  the  joy 


230  MAMELON. 

I  experienced  in  visiting  the  factory.  If  I  were  a 
man  I  am  sure  I  should  engage  in  some  business 
connected  with  machinery.  I  am  surprised  that 
no  poet  has  ever  successfully  portrayed  the  poetry 
of  mechanical  action.  I  am  confident  that  I  never 
felt  so  inspirited  and  poetical  as  when  watching 
the  machinery.  There  was  the  row  of  great  black 
boilers,  six  of  them  lying  side  by  side,  with  the 
glowing  fires  beneath,  fed  with  the  creamy  white 
hickory  sawdust  and  shavings  which  were  con- 
stantly falling  from  the  saws  and  lathes  in  the 
room  beyond  the  stone  wall  which  shut  in  these 
seething  monsters.  In  the  engine-room  beside 
them  was  the  massive  bed  framed  to  support  the 
huge  wheel.  The  crank  was  grasped  by  the  pol- 
ished piston-arm,  which  rushed  back  and  forth  and 
turned  the  great  wheel  sixty  times  a  minute  with 
untiring  regularity.  I  timed  it  so  often  that  I 
could  detect  a  variance  of  only  three  or  four  revo- 
lutions in  a  minute  without  consulting  my  watch. 
It  did  this  as  smoothly  and  quietly  as  my  boy's 
patent  top  spins  upon  glass  or  marble.  You  could 
hear  a  whisper,  standing  beside  it,  though  the 
force  was  so  great  that  it  jarred  the  ground  we 
stood  upon.  Two  hundred  horse-power  was  in 
that  long,  low  iron  frame  and  that  broad  wheel, 


WIZARDRY.  231 

connected  with  the  nest  of  boilers  only  by  a  four- 
inch  supply  pipe,  and  with  that  long  whirring  shaft 
in  the  factory  only  by  the  broad  rubber  band 
which  hugged  the  surface  of  the  wheel.  Had  I 
not  seen  the  mass  of  stone  and  the  great  square 
timbers  on  which  it  rested,  and  the  huge  bolts 
which  went  down  into  the  solid  stone  and  ce- 
ment I  should  have  wondered  by  what  power  it 
was  held  in  place.  Yet  it  made  far  less  noise  and 
fuss  than  the  little  steam  pump  in  the  corner, 
which  looked  beside  it  like  a  jeweled  plaything  for 
a  lady's  boudoir. 

But  it  was  in  the  factory  itself  that  this  power 
began  to  really  show  itself,  in  a  hundred  feet  of 
shafting,  with  drums  and  pulleys  turning  three 
hundred  times  a  minute,  while  belts  and  counter- 
shafts made  saws  and  lathe-heads  and  the  grind- 
ing wheels  turn  perhaps  as  many  thousand  times 
in  the  same  period  of  time. 

There  was  the  constant  hum  and  rush  of  rest- 
less wheels,  the  crash  of  resistless  teeth  and  the 
hasty  murmur  of  men,  who  could  not  lag  in  their 
movements,  being  ever  crowded  by  the  angry  re- 
lentless arm  of  that  insensate  horrible  fate  beyond 
the  wall. 

You  could  stand  and  watch  the  great  shaggy 


232  MAMELON. 

barked  hickory,  which  appeared  almost  as  heavy 
and  as  strong  as  the  iron  which  its  steel-gray  sides 
seemed  to  claim  kinship  with,  stripped  and  torn 
and  ground  and  polished  until  it  became  a  pile 
of  deftly  curved,  delicately  rounded  and  swelled, 
creamy  white  handles. 

First  you  saw  the  great  log  hung  upon  center 
pivots  above  a  circular  saw,  over  which  it  was 
thrust  back  and  forth  until  for  every  three  inches 
of  the  circumference  there  was  a  cut  of  equal 
depth  towards  the  heart.  Then  these  pieces  were 
split  off  and  roughly  trimmed  and  shaped  with 
saws,  then  they  were  put  into  lathes  where  a  fierce 
running  little  saw  tore  away  all  the  wood  that  re- 
mained beyond  the  limits  and  requirements  of  the 
pattern  which  guided  its  action.  When  this  was 
done  it  was  trimmed  upon  another  saw  at  each 
end  ;  then  ground  upon  swift-running  sanded  belts 
until  all  inequalities  were  worn  away ;  then  it  was 
polished  upon  an  emery-belt,  and  finally  waxed  and 
finished  on  another;  and,  having  been  thoroughly 
seasoned  in  the  dry-room,  went  to  the  packing- 
room  to  be  assorted  and  packed  for  the  market, 
which  extended  all  over  the  United  States  and 
to  many  points  in  Europe.  And  all  about  flew  the 
white  chips  from  the  lathes,  and  the  flocky  saw- 


WIZARDRY.    .  233 

dust  gathered  in  piles  everywhere.  It  was  all  so 
neat  and  clean  and  airy,  and  yet  so  strong  and  re- 
lentless in  its  ceaseless  rush  and  so  wonderful  in 
its  transforming  power!  It  was  as  if  the  gnomes 
and  fairies  had  banded  together  in  the  broad  day- 
light to  disport  themselves  with  the  white-hearts 
of  our  Carolina  '*  shag-barks."  It  was  indeed  a 
beautiful  application  of  force,  the  transformation 
of  a  dozen  cords  a  day  of  this  stubborn  wood  into 
those  ivory-looking  handles. 

The  money  which  Paul  had  borrowed  not 
being  required  to  be  paid  back  at  once,  all  of  the 
profits  of  the  business  went  to  its  extension ; 
and  there  rose  about  our  factory  a  right  busy 
and  populous  village.  The  vast  amount  of  tim- 
ber consumed,  and  its  character,  being  that  which 
was  before  accounted  entirely  worthless  except 
for  firewood,  as  well  as  the  high  prices  paid  for  it, 
rendered  the  enterprise  a  godsend  to  our  im- 
poverished people.  What  they  received  for  this, 
outside  of  the  labor  of  cutting  and  hauling,  was 
just  so  much  money  foiuid^  they  were  accustomed 
to  say. 

There  was  constantly  such  a  look  of  business 
about  the  factory  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
believe  that  it  was  not  coining  money  for  its  own- 


234  MAMELON. 

ers.     Yet  Paul  did  not  lose  the  careworn,  anxious 
look  which  he  had  had  so  long. 

When  he  first  borrowed  the  money  he  had  taken 
out  a  heavy  insurance  policy  on  his  life,  to  guard 
against  accidents,  as  he  remarked.  I  had  not  de- 
sired this.  It  always  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  could 
never  more  enjoy  wealth  which  had  come  to 
me  through  the  death  of  one  I  loved. 

The  years  went  on — one,  two,  three.  The 
business  had  greatly  increased — the  anxiety  finally 
had  faded  quite  out  of  Paul's  face.  It  was  just  at 
the  beginning  of  the  season  for  the  fall  trade,  and 
they  had  on  hand  a  stock  which  for  quality  and 
quantity  had  never  before  been  approached. 
When  this  was  sold,  Paul  would  draw  his  dividend 
and  pay  off  his  debts. 

That  was  his  plan — on  the  morning  of  the  17th 
of  September,  eighteen  hundred  and  seventy- 
three. 


CHAPTER  X. 


THE    DELUGE. 


ir^  VERY  one  knows  what  then  befell.  Thou- 
-* — '  sands  upon  thousands  of  hearts  still  mourn 
the  unseen  terrible  visitation  which,  like  the  blight 
of  pestilence,  swept  over  the  land,  blasting  hopes, 
desolating  homes,  and  crushing  the  strongest  and 
proudest  in  its  path.  How  many  who  were  rich 
before  were  poor  afterwards!  How  many  Avho 
were  proud  before  have  dwelt  in  the  valley  of 
humiliation  since  !  How  many  a  life  of  prudent, 
careful  toil  w^as  in  an  instant  wrecked  !  how  many 
a  bright  outlook  as  suddenly  overcast!  How 
many  a  gray  head  bowed  to  the  tomb !  how  many 
a  young  brow  took  on  the  silver  badge  of  age  as 
the  result  of  that  day  1 

We  speak  of  the  "  panic"  or  the  "  crash,"  and  it 
is  as  a  belt  of  darkness  to  our  minds  in  the  bright- 
ness of  the  past.  To  the  student  of  political 
economies  it  marks  a  readjustment  of  values.  To 
the  business  man  it  is  the  beginning  of  a  long 
period  of  depression  under  which    thousands  of 


236  MAMELON. 

the  best  and  staunchest  of  their  class  failed.  To 
the  judges  and  lawyers  it  marks  one  of  those 
periodic  waves  of  bankruptcy  which  are  always 
followed  by  an  undertow  of  crime  and  demoraliza- 
tion. To  one  who  studies  the  human  heart — its 
miseries  and  misfortunes — bankruptcy  is  only  less 
sad  than  the  wreck  which  follows  war.  It  tells  of 
a  more  terrible  blight  than  any  other — a  blight 
which  settles  upon  the  strongest  and  fairest,  and 
invades  the  brightest  homes.  Oh,  many  a  heart 
mourns  to-day  in  a  sad  and  hopeless  bitterness 
the  wounds  of  that  day,  and  many  another  life 
has  gone  out  in  darkness  by  reason  of  it. 

That  day  the  "  panic"  came.  From  that  hour, 
to  how  many  men  in  every  business  was  it  as  it 
was  with  Paul  and  Captain  Dickson — a  struggle 
for  life  I  The  hope  of  profit  went  out  with  the 
first  hint  of  the  great  convulsion.  Can  I  live  it 
through  ?  was  the  only  inquiry  of  merchant  and 
manufacturer. 

It  was  peculiarly  hard  upon  the  business  in 
which  Paul  was  engaged,  since  the  autumn  is  the 
harvest  to  which  all  in  that  line  look  forward, 
just  as  the  farmer  does,  all  the  rest  of  the  year. 
The  labor  and  expense  of  the  year  had  been 
performed    and    incurred    in    the    hope    of   what 


THE  DELUGE.  237 

these    months    might   bring — and    they   brought 
nothing. 

What  was  made  remained  unsold,  and  what 
had  been  sold  remained  unpaid  for. 

The  works  were  closed,  and  a  struggle  went  on 
night  and  day  to  avert  disaster.  Every  straw 
which  could  give  a  moment's  breathing  space  was 
caught  at  and  held  to  with  a  wild,  vague  hope 
that  it  might  bring  relief.  Paul  went  on  to  the 
North  and  tried  to  secure  aid.  He  was  but  one 
of  thousands,  and  all  were  hopeless.  Where  all 
are  smitten  no  one  cares  for  another's  wound. 

I  had  become  so  infatuated  with  the  works  that 
I  did  not  realize  our  danger — in  fact,  my  confi- 
dence in  Paul  and  the  business  was  so  great  that 
I  was  just  sure  they  could  not  fail.  While  he  was 
gone  and  the  works  were  idle  I  cheered  my  lone- 
liness with  the  thought  that  he  would  come  back 
strengthened  and  reinforced  for  the  conflict.  I 
thought  I  should  see  it  in  his  eyes  and  hear  it  in 
his  step  before  he  spoke.  He  stayed  away  a  long 
time,  and  I  waited  hopefully,  yet  with  a  great 
fear,  as  the  days  grew  more  and  more,  and  yet  he 
did  not  come. 

I  had  been  so  proud  of  the  busy  factory,  had 
been  so  happy  in  watching  its  rise  and  operation, 


23S  mamelon: 

that  I  could  not  bear  to  think  of  its  going  into 
other  hands.  It  had  grown  so  into  our  lives  that 
it  seemed  like  wrenching  away  a  part  of  them  to 
let  it  go.  In  the  trouble  which  came  from  the 
contemplation  of  this  catastrophe  I  had  quite 
forgotten  that  our  home  itself  might  also  be  lost. 
It  did  not  once  occur  to  my  mind  that  the  mort- 
gage which  had  been  given  was  yet  unpaid,  and 
that  the  loss  of  a  part  involved  a  loss  of  the  whole. 


CHAPTER   XI. 


AN     OLIVE     BRANCH. 


T  T  was  February  when  Paul  came  back,  unsuc- 
-■-  cessful — as  I  knew  he  had  been  when  I  heard 
his  footstep  on  the  porch.  There  came  with  him 
a  stranger,  one  of  those  scientific  men  who  had 
learned  of  my  husband's  famiUarity  with  the 
Mound  Builders,  had  read  what  he  had  written 
years  ago,  and  was  anxious  to  see  the  collection 
he  had  made. 

Professor  Ware  was  one  of  those  Northern  men 
who  have  no  parallel  in  other  countries,  as  I  am 
told  and  can  well  believe.  He  was  a  full,  robust 
man,  with  a  quiet,  self-poised  look.  Though  yet 
young  he  had  seen  more  of  the  earth's  surface, 
and  of  the  dwellers  thereon,  both  of  the  past  and 
present,  than  often  falls  to  the  lot  of  mortals,  and 
had  improved  his  opportunity  by  observing  what 
he  saw  with  unexampled  accuracy.  In  the  do- 
main of  a  half-dozen  sciences  he  was  a  recognized 
authority,  and  spoke  with  the  positiveness  of  ac- 
tual knowledge.     Geology,   mineralogy,  archaeol- 


240  MA  MELON, 

ogy,  and  I  forget  how  many  other  ologles  Paul 
told  me  were  as  familiar  to  his  quiet  visitor  as  my 
boy's  face  was  to  me.  He  had  made  science  pay, 
too.  While  he  had  an  absorbing  desire  to  know, 
he  had  never  forgotten  that  in  order  to  do  so  he 
must  first  live,  and  that  the  prime  element  of 
scientific  success  was  a  sufficiency  of  this  world's 
funds  to  carry  out  his  ideas  and  verify  his  conclu- 
sions. At  the  very  outset  therefore  he  had,  under 
circumstances  of  the  greatest  difficulty,  made  a 
scientific  collection  which  a  rich  Northern  college 
had  been  glad  to  secure  at  a  price  which  was  a 
fortune  to  the  collector.  It  had  cost  him  labor 
and  self-denial,  which  he  thus  transformed  into 
money  and  position. 

Then  he  discovered  mines  and  valuable  deposits 
of  one  kind  and  another  in  which  he  secured  an 
interest,  and  was  counted  then  among  the  rich 
men  of  the  city  where  he  dwelt. 

My  husband  had  a  vast  respect  for  this  gifted 
stranger,  and  he  made  himself  so  agreeable  to  us 
all  who  were  at  Hickory  Grove  that,  for  a  few 
days,  we  almost  forgot  our  trouble  in  the  pleasure 
of  his  society.  You  know  that  when  anything 
fresh  and  rare  comes  into  our  isolated  country  life 
it  is  sweeter  a  thousand  times  than  the  same  en- 


AN  OLIVE  BRANCH.  24 1 

tertalnment  would  be  in  the  bustle  and  excite- 
ment of  the  city.  He  and  Paul  had  visited  the 
mounds  which  had  been  opened  and  many  which 
had  not,  measured  the  skeletons,  calculated  the 
size  of  missing  parts,  exchanged  theories,  made 
new  guesses,  and  were  as  talkative  and  merry  as 
two  boys  in  holiday-time.  Finally,  I  think  in 
sheer  desperation  for  an  excuse  to  remain  longer 
together,  they  took  to  hunting.  The  weather 
was  that  delightful  midwinter  Indian  summer, 
which  we  so  often  experience  in  the  Carolinas  ;  the 
birds  were  unusually  numerous  that  winter,  and 
Paul  had  always  been  fond  of  this  sport.  His  dogs 
and  equipments  were  of  the  best,  and  he  keenly 
enjoyed  a  trial  of  skill  in  the  field.  The  bags 
which  they  made  showed  very  clearly  that  he  had 
no  unworthy  contestant,  and  I  think  that  before 
they  had  ended  their  second  day's  shooting  scien- 
tific theories  were  at  a  discount  with  both.  If 
they  talked  of  anything  but  birds  and  dogs  and 
guns  as  they  smoked  their  cigars  that  night  aftec 
supper  I  did  not  hear  it,  though  I  was  an  atten- 
tive and  delighted  listener.  Paul  seemed  so  un- 
conscious of  trouble  that  I  quite  forgot  our  dan- 
ger, and  was  happier  than  I  had  dared  to  be  before 
since  that  terrible  day  in  September. 


242  MA  MELON. 

That  was  the  thirteenth  day  of  February.  I 
should  have  remembered  it  by  the  fact  that  the 
professor  remarked,  when  the  proximity  of  the 
14th  was  alluded  to,  that  he  must  write  his  wife  a 
valentine.  Then,  between  us,  Paul  and  I  told  the 
story  of  his  life,  and  our  minds  went  back  to  the  old 
untroubled  days.  I  sat  by  Paul  on  a  low  ottoman, 
and  he  kept  on  smoothing  and  patting  my  hair 
with  a  grave  troubled  look  long  after  our  guest 
had  retired.  Then  he  took  a  lamp,  and  after  giv- 
ing me  a  kiss,  went  off  into  the  cabinet  alone.  I 
knew  what  this  meant.  He  wished  to  think  or 
write  without  interruption.  It  was  an  intimation 
that  I  should  go  to  bed  and  he  would  come 
when  he  had  finished  his  meditations. 

The  next  day  Paul  and  the  Professor  were  to 
have  their  final  trial  of  skill.  They  started  early. 
It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  and  I  went  out  and 
saw  them  beat  several  fields  which  they  had  re- 
served for  this  last  day  of  sporting.  They  were 
very  evenly  matched,  and  scored  almost  bird  for 
bird  for  hours.  With  the  passionate  love  of  sport 
which  is  characteristic  of  Southern  people,  I  took 
the  liveliest  interest  in  the  strife,  following  on  till 
I  was  quite  tired  out ;  and  then  sitting  down  on  a 
rock  I  watched  them  as  they  went  away  from  me 


AN  OLIVE  BRANCH.  243 

beating  a  weedy  stubble  field  which  was  the  haunt 
ofc  some  fine  coveys  yet  unbroken.  With  a 
Southern  woman's  admiration  of  physical  excel- 
lence, too,  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  I  had 
never  seen  two  fairer  specimens  of  manhood  than 
my  Paul  and  the  professor — an  opinion  which  I 
have  as  yet  seen  no  reason  to  change.  I  was 
proud  of  them  both — proud  of  my  husband  and 
proud  of  his  friend — not,  I  think,  because  of  their 
relations  to  myself,  nor  because  they  were  my 
people,  but  because  I  thought  the  world  could 
not  furnish  a  likelier  pair. 

The  sunshine  gleamed  on  their  barrels,  the  puffs 
of  smoke  shot  out,  I  heard  the  quick  explosion 
and  saw  the  poor  ''  Bob-White"  drop  limp  and 
dead  from  his  swift  flight  into  the  brown  rag- 
weed below.  I  caught  now  and  then  their  voices 
in  exultant  queries,  broken  laughter,  or  the  ring- 
ing ''  Mark  five!  mark  three!"  as  the  birds  rose. 

It  seemed  to  me  a  proud  sight  as  those  two 
men,  lately  enemies,  the  one  famed  in  science,  and 
the  other  a  knight  who  had  won  his  spurs  in  battle 
and  worn  them  with  honor  in  many  another, 
faring  on  together  in  happy  harmony. 

After  a  time  they  passed  out  of  my  sight  and  I 
went  back  to  the  house  light  enough  of  heart. 


CHAPTER   XII. 


NOTA    BENE. 


T  T  ARDLY  had  I  reached  the  Grove  when  I 
-*-  -*-  saw  some  one  turn  from  the  main  road 
towards  the  house.  I  knew  it  to  be  Sheriff  James, 
and  all  my  fears  returned  as  he  tied  his  horse  at 
the  rack  and  came  leisurely  up  the  path  to  the 
house.  He  was  shown  into  the  sitting-room 
where  I  was,  and  after  some  ordinary  talk  in- 
quired for  Paul.  I  told  him  he  had  gone  from 
home,  and  offered  no  information  as  to  his  where- 
abouts. I  did  not  know  why  he  should  want  my 
Paul,  and  was  determined  that  he  should  not 
learn  through  me  where  he  was.  He  seemed 
somewhat  embarrassed  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  faces  an  irksome  task, 
he  said : 

"  Mrs.  Dewar,  I  have  a  duty  to  perform  which 
is  very  unpleasant,  because  I  know  it  must  be 
disagreeable  both  to  yourself  and  your  husband. 
I  am  required  to  serve  these  notices,"  handing 
me  two  legal  papers,  "  one  copy  for  yourself  and 


NOTA   BENE,  245 

the  other  for  Mr.  Dewar.  I  sincerely  trust  they 
may  occasion  you  no  inconvenience.  I  assure 
you  that  no  one  more  deeply  sympathizes  with 
your  husband's  losses  than  I.  Good-evening, 
madam." 

He  had  been  gone  some  moments  before  I 
ventured  to  look  at  the  hateful  papers  he  had 
thrust  into  my  hands.  I  was  completely  ignorant 
of  all  legal  forms,  and  had  a  peculiar  horror  of 
whatever  smacked  of  the  court-house  or  of  law. 
I  knew  that  the  papers  had  something  to  do  with 
our  loss.  The  sheriff's  words  had  implied  that 
much.  What  their  specific  purpose  was  I  had  no 
idea.    I  looked  at  one  of  them.    It  was  endorsed: 

"  Copy  of  notice  for  Mrs.  Susan  M.  Dewar.** 

I  opened  it  and  read: 

''Mrs.  Susan  M.  Dewar: 

'*  Take  notice  that  unless  the  sum  of  five 
thousand  dollars  with  interest  due  by  notes 
secured  by  mortgage,  on  a  certain  tract  of  land, 
known  as  Hickory  Grove,  be  paid  to  me  within 
twenty  days,  I  shall  at  the  expiration  of  said  time 
proceed  to  sell  said  premises,  at  public  outcry,  to 


246  MAMELON. 

satisfy  said  debt  in  accordance  with  the  terms  and 
conditions  of  said  mortgage. 

''Philip  Holdfast. 
''Feb,  lotk,  1874." 

I  do  not  know  how  I  managed  to  get  through 
with  it,  but  I  did.  The  hght  went  out  of  my  life 
then.  For  the  first  time  I  reahzed  that  our  home, 
iny  home,  the  dear  old  Grove,  was  to  be  sold ! 
That  we  were  to  be  absolutely  homeless  in  the 
world !  Whether  I  fainted  or  became  simply  stu- 
pefied I  shall  never  know.  I  dropped  those  hor- 
rible notices  there  in  the  middle  of  the  sitting- 
room  floor  and  fled  to  my  own  room,  more  dead 
than  alive.  I  took  no  note  of  the  hours  as  they 
passed  away.  I  lay  upon  my  bed  and  moaned  in 
a  dull,  hopeless  agony.  Husband,  child,  every- 
thing and  every  one  was  forgotten  except  the 
constant  and  terrible  thought  that  my  home,  my 
childhood's  home,  the  dear  old  Moyer  place  where 
generations  of  our  family  had  lived  and  died — the 
dear,  dear  old  Grove — was  to  be  mine  no  longer. 
I  do  not  think  I  thought  of  Paul  once  in  all  those 
long,  terrible  hours — hardly  more  than  once  of 
my  child.  The  specter  of  poverty  was  before  me, 
and  death  would  have  been  a  thousandfold  more 


NOT  A    BENE.  2^J 

welcome.  It  even  occurred  to  me  more  than 
once  that  the  bright  river  which  flowed  past  a 
hundred  yards  away  offered  the  easiest  and  surest 
remedy  for  my  ills.  I  did  not  put  away  the 
thought.  It  w^as  just  pushed  from  my  mind  by 
my  present  misery. 

I  saw,  heard,  thought  of  nothing  beyond  my 
own  room  and  my  own  heart  until  I  heard  the 
report  of  firearms  in  the  room  adjoining  my  own 
— my  husband's  cabinet !  Then  everything  rushed 
upon  me  with  the  vividness  of  light !  I  knew  the 
day  had  passed,  Paul  had  come  back,  and  read 
the  notices,  and — crying, ''  Paul !  Paul !"  forgetting 
everything  else  in  the  one  thought  that  he  had 
felt  the  blow — I  ran  to  the  door  of  the  cabinet, 
burst  it  open  only  to  see  him  prone  upon  the 
floor  with  a  pistol  in  his  hand  and  the  room  full  of 
powder-smoke ! 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


"as    CHRIST    LOVED    US." 


^  I  ^HE  first  one  to  enter  the  cabinet  by  the  door 
-*-  opening  from  the  porch  was  the  Professor. 
I  do  not  know  whether  he  came  in  response  to  my 
scream — for  I  know  I  must  have  screamed — or 
because  he  had  heard  the  explosion.  I  only  know 
that  he  came  and  had  no  sooner  entered  the  door 
and  glanced  at  my  face  and  then  at  the  form  on 
the  floor  than  he  seemed  to  comprehend  every 
thing  and,  in  his  quiet  way,  decided  what  was 
best  to  be  done.  He  closed  and  locked  the  door 
behind  him,  came  quickly  towards  me,  and  said, 
meaningly : 

"  Send  for  a  physician.     Be  quiet  and  admit  no 


»» 
one. 


His  firm,  quick  tones  reassured  me  and  I  let 
him  go  alone  to  my  prostrate  husband,  while  I 
went  to  the  door  of  my  bedroom  where  my  maid, 
Parthenia,  was  already  clamoring  for  admission, 
and,  with  a  quietness  which  amazes  me  now,  gave 
her  the  message  he  had  charged  me  to  deliver. 


"AS   CHRIST  LOVED    US:*  249 

*'  But  there  is  no  one  on  the  place,  Miss  Sue ! 
The  boys  have  all  gone  to  meeting,"  said  the  girl. 

"There  is  no  time  to  go  for  a  neighbor,"  I  re- 
plied. ''  Get  on  Bob  and  go  yourself."  She  was 
a  young  active  girl,  and  a  two  miles'  ride  on  the 
easy-going,  sagacious  thoroughbred  was  nothing 
to  her. 

*' But  you,  Miss  Sue?"  she  asked  hesitatingly. 

"  I  don't  want  anybody  else  to  go.  I  shall  get 
along  till  you  return,"  I  said. 

"All  right,  then,"  she  replied,  flattered  by  the 
preference  my  words  expressed,  and  she  was  off 
in  an  instant. 

"  Then  I  closed  the  door  and  rushed  back  to 
gaze  on  what  I  felt  would  blast  my  life  and  sear 
my  eyeballs,  yet  which  I  must  see,  and  oh  !  I  shall 
never  forget  that  terrible  sight  which  greeted  my 
eyes  as  I  entered  the  cabinet  again  !  Paul  was 
lying  in  front  of  his  desk,  his  face  and  the  upper 
part  of  his  body  in  the  circle  of  light  which  the 
student's  lamp  attached  to  his  desk  cast  on  the 
floor.  The  eyes  were  turned  upward  and  the 
great  white  face  was  set  in  rigid  lines  of  agony. 
He  had  fallen  on  his  side,  but  the  Professor  had 
turned  him  on  his  back  and  was  examining  his 
head  and  chest. 


250  MA  MELON. 

Even  death  could  not  rob  the  countenance  of 
my  Paul  of  its  noble  tenderness,  or  the  woe  which 
had  overwhelmed  even  his  strength. 

For  once  I  forgot  myself,  and  a  wild  tide  of  re- 
morse swept  across  my  breast  as  I  gazed  on  that 
cold,  fixed  face  with  its  stony,  unseeing  stare,  and 
thought  that  it  was  my  selfish  grief  which  had 
left  him  to  meet  the  terrible  shock  alone.  I  felt 
that  he  had  sacrificed  himself  for  love  of  me — 
because  he  could  not  endure  to  witness  my  distress 
at  our  misfortune. 

Oh !  it  was  terrible  to  think  that  I  had  let  so 
noble  a  heart  burst  from  very  dread  of  witnessing 
my  needless  sorrow  !  How  had  I  mistaken  my 
noble  Paul !  Oh !  I  forgot  myself  only  to  wish 
that  I  were  lying  there  beside  him — his  bride  in 
death — now,  for  the  first  time,  comprehending  his 
love  and  tenderness.  I  even  looked  for  the  pistol 
I  had  seen  in  his  hand  with  a  vague  idea  that  I 
would  go  to  him  still, — that  he  must  be  lonely  in 
the  great  uncertainty  to  which  he  had  gone.  I 
was  so  eager  to  let  him  know  how,  more  than 
ever,  I  loved  him,  to  tell  him  that  I  never  had  a 
thought  of  blaming  him  for  our  misfortune,  which, 
as  you  know,  was  quite  untrue,  yet  what  woman 
ever  winced  at  falsehood  when  it  would  comfort 


''AS   CHRIST  LOVED    US."  25 1 

the  heart  she  loved  ?  And  then,  too,  it  was  not 
I  who  had  blamed  him,  but  the  selfish,  foolish 
something  which  had  possessed  my  mind  in  those 
first  moments  when  the  bitter  knowledge  of  our 
loss  came  to  my  consciousness. 

The  pistol  was  not  there.  I  ran  forward  and 
fell  on  my  knees  on  the  other  side  of  Paul.  The 
Professor  was  on  his  knees  with  Paul's  head  in  his 
lap.  All  this  I  saw  and  thought  and  did  in  a 
flash.  I  do  not  suppose  I  paused  an  instant  after 
shutting  the  bedroom  door.  I  clasped  my  arms 
about  his  neck,  half  shuddering  lest  I  should  feel 
his  blood  upon  them,  and  fell  upon  his  dear,  dead 
face  with  clinging  kisses,  muttering  Paul!  Paul! 
Paul !  with  a  wild,  fierce  thought  that  his  spirit 
would  hear  my  impassioned,  yearning  cry  and 
come  back  from  the  bourne  it  had  just  passed. 

I  felt  that  he  was  dead.  I  had  no  doubt  of  that. 
Yet  I  thought  that  he  could  hear  me,  that  he 
would  know  my  thought  and  come  back  when  he 
saw  how  much  greater  was  my  agony  at  his  de- 
parture than  at  the  misfortune  we  had  suffered. 
So  I  clung  to  him  and  cried  protestingly : 

"  I  did  not  blame  you,  Paul !  It  is  nothing, 
Paul !  Why  did  you  leave  me  ?  Come  back  to 
your  cousin  Sue — oh  I  Paul!  Paul!" 


252  MA  MELON. 

Suddenly  I  felt  the  Professor's  hand  upon  my 
arm.  How  terribly  strong  he  was!  Even  in  my 
excitement  I  felt  each  finger  as  it  cut  into  the 
flesh.  A  week  after  I  saw  the  bloody  imprint  and 
blest  the  hand  that  made  it. 

"Let  go!"  he  cried  hoarsely,  as  he  tore  my 
clasped  hands  apart  and  thrust  me  back  from  the 
face  of  my  dead.  "  Be  still.  You  do  not  know 
what  you  are  doing !" 

I  looked  up  in  an  amazement  which  overcame 
every  other  feeling.  His  face  was  ashy  pale,  his 
lips  close  shut,  and  his  eyes  burned  with  a  strange, 
fierce  light  which  hushed  me  in  an  instant.  I 
have  thought  since  that  the  prophet's  face  must 
have  shone  like  that  when  he  took  the  widow's 
son  "from  her  bosom  and  carried  it  into  a  loft 
where  he  abode."  I  could  not  help  but  do  as  he 
wished.  I  obeyed  him  as  I  would  have  obeyed 
my  Paul  if  he  had  spoken  at  that  moment.  I  re- 
linquished my  clasp  of  the  dear  head  and  looked 
up  into  the  stern  face  above,  appealingly,  it  must 
have  been — for  something  of  pity  came  into  the 
Professor's  eyes,  and,  I  thought,  something  of 
hope  too,  as  he  gathered  Paul  in  his  arms  and 
raised  him  from  the  floor.  He  was  so  strong  that 
the  nerveless  form  did  not  seem  to  burden  him. 


"AS  CHRIST  LOVED    US."  253 

"  Bring  a  lamp,"  he  said  sharply,  with  an  im- 
perious glance  at  me.  I  obeyed  silently,  and  he 
carried  Paul  and  laid  him  on  my  bed.  I  could 
but  moan  as  I  saw  him  arrange  his  head  upon  the 
pillow.  "Hush!  Hold  the  light,"  he  said  hur- 
riedly. He  ran  a  hand  over  Paul's  head  once 
more. 

Then  he  pulled  off  his  collar,  tore  open  his  shirt 
front,  and  thrust  a  hand  in  upon  his  breast, — took 
it  out  and  gazed  at  me  a  moment  half  doubtfully. 

''  How  far  is  it  to  the  physician's?"  he  asked. 

*'Two  miles,"  I  answered. 

'*  Too  far,  too  far,"  he  muttered. 

Too  far !  I  caught  the  words,  and  a  strange 
wild  hope  took  hold  of  me  for  an  instant,  but 
faded  as  quickly  when  I  glanced  at  the  rigid  face 
upon  the  pillows. 

The  Professor  walked  across  the  room  once  or 
twice  absently,  then  came  close  to  me,  took  the 
lamp  from  my  hand  and  set  it  on  the  bureau  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  Then  he  put  both  hands  on 
my  shoulders,  and  looking  into  my  eyes  steadily 
said  in  a  voice  which  trembled  with  earnestness, 

*'  How  strong  are  you  ?" 

"Ah!  oh! — I  am  very  weak,"  I  answered  gasp- 
ingly. 


254  MA  melon: 

"But  if  there  was  no  one  else,"  he  said,  "if 
there  was  no  one  else  who  could  do  it,  what  would 
you  do  to  save  his  life  ?" 

"To  save  his  life!  oh — you — you  do  not" — I 
think  I  should  have  fainted  if  he  had  not  shaken 
me. 

"  Hush  !"  he  said  impetuously,  "  I  do  not  say  it 
can  be  done,  but  if  it  could — if  there  was  a  chance, 
what  would  you  do?  What  would  you  under- 
take ?" 

For  the  first  time,  then,  I  felt  that  he  was  all  a- 
quiver  with  excitement.  I  understood  then,  and 
all  at  once  I  felt  that  my  intuition  had  been  cor- 
rect, that  I  should  call  back  my  Paul.  I  was  quiet 
enough  now.  My  nerves  were  as  calm  as  they 
are  at  this  instant.  I  looked  steadily  in  his  eye 
and  answered, 

"  Everything." 

"  Ah !"  he  said  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "  that  is 
right.  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  speak  thus.  And 
now,  Mrs.  Dewar,  will  you  trust  your  husband's 
life  in  my  hands  ?  When  the  physician  comes  it 
may  be  too  late." 

"  It  could  not  be  in  truer  ones,"  I  answered 
without  hesitation. 

"  Thanks,"    he   said    in   his    quick   jerky   way. 


"AS  CHRIST  LOVED    US."  255 

"  You  must  help  me.  Do  not  flinch  or  waver, 
whatever  happens.     Hold  the  light." 

I  took  the  lamp  and  held  it  towards  him.  He 
took  out  a  knife  and  examined  the  blades  by  its 
light.  I  did  not  think  of  trembling  or  doubting. 
I  was  sure  he  would  save  Paul.  He  seemed 
satisfied  with  his  examination.  I  think  he  made 
it  more  to  test  me  than  the  blades. 

''  All  right,"  he  said.     ''  Hold  the  Hght  here." 

He  turned  to  the  bed  and  tore  the  clothing  from 
my  husband's  right  arm.  I  hardly  comprehended 
his  purpose  till  he  had  grasped  it  close  with  his 
left  hand  and  strained  the  skin  between  palm  and 
finger  and  made  a  swift  incision  with  his  knife.  I 
knew  then  his  purpose  was  to  bleed  him.  Only  a 
few  sluggish  drops  crept  out  from  the  severed 
vein.  The  Professor  sat  watching  it  intently  and 
with  a  look  of  disappointment. 

"That  will  not  do,"  he  muttered,  "something 
else  must  be  done.  Quick,  Mrs.  Dewar !"  he  cried, 
"  bring  me  two  of  those  tall  glasses  I  saw  on  your 
side-board  yesterday." 

I  flew  into  the  dining-room  and  brought  back 
two  of  the  long,  slender  ale  glasses  of  a  former 
generation.  Then  he  turned  Paul's  head  upon 
one  side  and  made  a  dozen  or  so  shallow  cuts  upon 


256  MA  MELON. 

his  temple,  swiftly  and  deftly.  Then  he  caught 
the  lamp  from  me,  ran  into  the  cabinet,  and  came 
back  with  a  half-dozen  sheets  of  tissue  paper  in 
his  hand.  Giving  me  the  lamp  again,  he  loosely 
twisted  one  of  them  into  a  ball,  lighted  it  at  the 
chimney  of  the  lamp  and  thrust  it  into  one  of  the 
glasses  which  he  clapped  bottom  upwards  on 
Paul's  temple.  The  paper  blazed  a  moment,  then 
shriveled  into  a  white  ash,  and  we  saw  the  dark 
blood  flowing  out  and  quenching  its  last  spark. 
The  Professor  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  We  shall  save  him,  I  think,"  he  said,  in  firm, 
even  tones. 

I  did  not  answer — I  could  not. 

The  operation  was  repeated  again  and  again  on 
both  temples  and  both  sides  of  the  neck.  At 
length  Paul  sighed,  then  breathed  irregularly. 
The  blood  had  trickled  down  upon  his  face,  and 
added  to  its  ghastliness,  but  when  a  fluttering 
motion  came  into  the  eyelids,  and  the  fixed  orbs 
moved  uncertainly  and  aimlessly,  it  was  as  glori- 
ous a  sight  to  me  as  the  face  of  the  Master  shin- 
ing like  the  sun  to  the  wondering  watchers  on  the 
Mount  of  Transfiguration.  I  knew  that  Paul  would 
live.  It  is  not  necessary  to  tell  what  happened 
next.    If  it  were,  I  could  not,  except  from  hearsay. 


"AS  CHRIST  LOVED    US:*  257 

Sometime  afterwards  I  found  myself  lying  on 
the  sofa  feeling  *'  powerful  weak,"  as  our  country 
people  say,  with  my  hair  dripping,  my  face  feel- 
ing as  if  it  had  been  rubbed  with  spirit,  and  a 
handkerchief,  drenched  with  cologne,  tucked 
under  my  nose,  while  Parthenia  was  fanning  me 
anxiously. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  room  two  men  were 
standing  by  the  bed,  the  family  doctor  on  the  side 
with  his  back  towards  me,  and  the  Professor  with 
his  arms  crossed  upon  the  foot-board,  looking 
contented  and  nonchalant. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

SCIENCF    AND     ART. 

1\  /r  Y  husband  was  lying  in  the  bed  now,  his 
^^ -^  head  curiously  wrapped  up,  as  I  could  see, 
and  the  old  doctor  evidently  just  examining  his 
condition  and  hearing  a  report  of  his  treatment. 

"  Repeated  cuppings,  cold  applications  to  the 
head  and  warm  ones  to  the  extremities — really, 
sir,  the  profession  could  have  done  no  more  for 
him  than  you  have.  I  do  not  see  that  anything 
more  is  to  be  done  at  present,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  But  the  bullet,"  I  said,  weakly  and  wonder- 
ingly,  "  what  about  the  bullet  ?" 

"  What,  eh  ?"  said  the  old  doctor,  peering  at  me 
Dver  his  spectacles. 

'*  She  has  persisted  all  the  time  that  she  heard  a 
shot  when  her  husband  fell.  She  told  me  so  when 
I  first  came  into  the  room  on  hearing  her  scream," 
said  the  Professor,  with  a  quiet  and  apparently 
sympathetic  mendacity.  "  I  suppose  she  was 
asleep  in  here,  and  hearing  the  fall  perhaps 
dreamed  of   the  shot.     You    know,  Doctor,  the 


SCIENCE  AND  ART.  259 

sleeping  mind  not  unfrequently  plays  such 
pranks." 

'*  Certainly — certainly.  There  is  no  bullet  in 
this  case,"  said  the  doctor.  ''Your  husband  was 
not  born  to  be  hurt  by  bullet,  Mrs.  Dewar." 

"No  bullet?"  I  said  dreamily. 

"  No  indeed,"  he  responded ;  "  only  a  sudden 
congestion,  something  like  a  slight  apoplexy." 

''No  bullet!  apoplexy!"  I  could  not  under- 
stand it.  Had  I  been  dreaming,  or  had  I  really 
heard  that  shot  and  seen  that  pistol  ? 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  the  Professor,  crossing  to 
the  sofa  and  laying  his  hand  upon  my  head,  "  that 
this  sudden  shock  has  prostrated  you  almost  as 
much  as  it  has  your  husband.  I  think  you  should 
dismiss  all  thought  from  your  mind  and  try  and 
restore  yourself  by  rest,  so  as  to  aid  him,  when  he 
shall  recover  consciousness,  by  your  presence  and 
demeanor." 

The  doctor  also  came  over  and  felt  my  pulse 
and  laid  his  hand  on  my  head  caressingly. 

"  Yes,  yes,  poor  dear,  you  may  sleep  now,"  he 
said.  "  It's  been  a  terrible  strain  I  know,  but  you 
and  Mr.  Ware  have  saved  Paul's  life.  No  doubt 
of  that.  And  now,  as  he  says,  you  must  go  to 
sleep  so  as  to  be  fresh  for  the  cheerful  nursing  he 


26o  MAMELON. 

will  require  hereafter.  Leave  him  to  us  now.  We 
will  take  care  of  him." 

The  kind  old  doctor,  with  all  his  shrewd  guess- 
ing, was  a  victim  of  the  Professor's  guile.  I  saw 
this  and  was  almost  afraid  he  was  cheating  me. 
I  was  sure  his  purpose  was  kindly,  but  could  not 
quite  fathom  it. 

A  sleeping  draught  was  prepared  for  me,  and 
with  the  Professor's  help  and  that  of  my  girl 
Parthenia,  I  was  removed  to  my  mother's  old 
room. 

It  was  a  dreamless  sleep  which  I  had  that  night, 
and  the  day  was  several  hours  old  when  I  awoke 
next  morning,  cheerful  and  refreshed.  It  was 
some  time  before  I  could  remember  what  had 
occurred.  When  I  did  I  sprang  up  and  hastily 
throwing  a  wrapper  about  me,  ran  to  the  door  of 
my  room.  As  I  opened  it  the  Professor  came  for- 
ward with  quick  noiseless  footsteps  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  my  arm.  The  room  was  silent  and 
dark. 

"  Paul  ?  Paul  ?"  I  whispered  fearfully. 

**  He  is  doing  well  and  sleeping  now,"  answered 
the  Professor,  still  barring  my  entrance. 

"  Can  I  not  see  him  ?"  I  entreated. 

"  The  doctor  has  only  just  retired,  Mrs.  Dewar,*' 


SCIENCE  AND  ART.  26 1 

he  answered  firmly,  "  and  left  me  the  most  posi- 
tive instructions  that  I  must  permit  no  one  to 
enter  the  room,  especially  you.  He  says  it  is  of 
the  last  importance  that  he  should  be  undisturbed. 

"  But  I  will  not  disturb  him,"  I  pleaded,  ''just 
one  look." 

But  the  watcher  was  firm.  Of  course  I  had 
recourse  to  woman's  last  argument,  tears.  But 
he  would  not  yield.  Then  I  became  indignant, 
and  asked  him  if  I  had  not  shown  enough  of  self- 
control  the  night  before  to  be  trusted  this  much 
now. 

"Will  you  exercise  the  same  control  now?"  he 
asked. 

I  promised  eagerly. 

''And  you  will  not  speak  to  him,  nor  touch 
him?" 

Again  I  promised.  He  stepped  aside  and  I 
passed  into  the  room  and  around  to  the  bedside 
©f  my  dead  who  was  alive  again. 

The  Professor  went  to  the  window  and  opened 
a  tiny  crevice  in  the  curtain,  so  I  could  see  the 
.  face  of  my  beloved,  dimly,  but  I  could  see  that  he 
was  alive  still.  I  remembered  my  promise,  but 
with  difficulty  restrained  myself  from  kissing 
the  poor  relaxed  lips  or  calling   upon  the  dear 


262  MA  MELON. 

name.  He  seemed  to  feel  my  presence,  how- 
ever, for  presently  his  lips  moved  and  he  said 
feebly, 

"  Sue !  Cousin  Sue !"  and  he  reached  down 
upon  the  bed-clothing  with  his  right  hand  which 
was  next  me,  as  if  feeling  for  me.  That  was  too 
much.  I  fell  on  my  knees  and  took  his  dear  hand 
in  mine  and  pressed  it  softly  to  my  lips.  The 
Professor  came  towards  me  with  a  whispered  word 
of  caution.  I  did  not  say  a  word  or  move  again, 
only  held  the  poor  nerveless  hand  to  my  cheek 
while  the  tears  rained  over  it  and  a  torrent  of 
wild  prayers  and  ecstatic  thanks  welled  silently 
up  from  my  heart. 

**  Sue !  O  Sue!  did  you  get  it?"  asked  Paul 
weakly  and  anxiously. 

I  felt  the  Professor's  hand  on  my  shoulder  and 
was  motionless  and  silent.  The  poor  head  turned 
anxiously  from  side  to  side,  and  again  the  weak 
voice  quavered  brokenly  out,  "  Did — you — get — 
it.  Sue  ?  Did  you  get  the — the — the — insurance, 
darling?" 

The  Professor's  grasp  tightened  on  my  shoulder 
and  he  whispered  excitedly  in  my  ear : 

"  Tell  him  yes,  for  God's  sake,  and  speak  natu- 
rally, cheerfully." 


SCIENCE  AND  ART.  263 

I  comprehended  his  purpose,  but  God  only 
knows  how  I  got  strength  to  comply. 

*'  Oh  yes,  darling,"  I  said,  "  that  is  all  right. 
I  got  it,  Paul!  I  got  it!" 

''  Thank — God,"  he  whispered,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief.  His  features  relaxed  and  his  breathing 
became  that  of  contented  slumber. 

The  Professor  took  Paul's  hand  from  my  em- 
brace and  led  me  from  the  room.  As  he  closed 
the  door  behind  me  I  asked  fearfully, 

"Have  I  done  him  any  harm?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  hope  much  good,"  he  re- 
pHed,  "  Keep  up  your  heart,"  he  added  cheerfully, 
'*  and  when  the  doctor  comes  to  relieve  me  let  me 
have  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  you  in  the 
cabinet.  You  know  I  was  to  have  left  to-day," 
he  said  in  answer  to  my  look  of  inquiry. 

"But  you  will  not?"  I  said  anxiously. 

"  We  will  talk  of  that,"  he  said  smilingly,  "when 
you  have  breakfasted  and  I  am  released  from 
duty  here." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    KEYSTONE. 

OOMEHOW  I  could  not  help  feeling  cheerful. 
*^  Paul  was  sick,  very  sick  I  knew,  but  he  was 
alive  and  I  had  thought  him  dead.  He  had  come 
back  to  me  as  from  the  grave.  So  I  ate  my 
breakfast  in  thankfulness ;  but  I  could  not  help 
thinking  of  all  that  had  happened  since  Paul,  the 
Professor  and  I  sat  there  at  breakfast  the  day 
before.  Then  I  wondered  if  it  could  be  that  I 
had  dreamed  about  that  shot  and  the  pistol  I 
had  seen  in  his  hand.  It  could  not  be.  I  had 
recognized  the  pistol.  It  was  one  of  those  queer 
repeating  Derringers,  with  one  barrel  above  the 
other,  which  a  friend  had  presented  to  Paul  just 
after  the  war.  I  had  often  seen  it,  and  had  some- 
times fired  it  just  to  please  Paul,  who  had  an  idea 
that  every  woman  and  child  should  be  taught  to 
shoot  and  swim,  as  one  can  never  tell  when  one 
may  need  such  knowledge  to  save  life.  I  knew 
where  it  was  kept  in  his  desk,  as  he  had  often 
shown  me  in  order  that  I  might  know  where  to 


THE  KEYSTONE.  265 

find  it  should  I  ever  need  it  in  his  absence.  I 
would  soon  determine  this  matter.  I  would  go 
and  see  if  it  were  there  now. 

I  hastened  to  the  cabinet.  The  drawer  of  the 
desk  in  which  the  pistol  had  been  kept  was  open. 
It  was  not  there.  I  was  right.  I  had  not  been 
dreaming.  I  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair  before 
the  desk  to  think.  As  I  did  so  my  eyes  fell  upon 
a  paper  lying  on  the  desk.  I  knew  it  at  a  glance. 
It  was  one  of  the  notices  the  sheriff  had  given  me 
the  day  before.  My  premonitions  had  been  cor- 
rect, then.  He  had  found  this  paper  where  I  had 
dropped  it,  and  his  shame  and  agony  had  goaded 
him  to  the  terrible  deed.  Yet  they  told  me  he 
was  not  shot.  They  surely  were  mistaken.  How 
could  I  have  been  so  thoughtless  as  to  have 
dropped  that  paper!  I  might  have  known  that 
this  blow  would  drive  him  to  desperation.  I 
reached  forward  and  took  the  paper  intending  to 
tear  it  into  fragments.  As  I  did  so  an  envelope 
lying  beneath  it  attracted  my  attention.  It  was 
directed  in  Paul's  handwriting : 

Sue  M.  DewaTy 

Per  St.  Valentine. 

I  opened  it  and  read  : 


266  MAMELON. 

A  WIFE'S  VALENTINE. 

The  days  have  passed  in  ceaseless  flow, 
Morning  and  evening,  sun  and  shade, 

Till  the  years  have  grown  to  the  long  ago, 
Since,  awkward  lover  and  artless  maid, 

At  the  game  of  hearts  together  we  played. 
Defiant  of  Time  and  Woe. 

The  boy — I  grieve  to  think — is  dead, 
Urned  in  dust  of  the  holy  past^ 

And  only  a  man  is  left  instead, 
Busy  and  burdened  and  overcast 

With  clouds  of  care,  as  dark  and  vast 
As  the  winter  midnight  overhead. 

I  sometimes  hope  he  is  still  within, 
Closely  screened  from  the  careless  gaze, 

Hiding  away  from  the  ceaseless  din. 
The  turmoil  of  manhood's  weary  ways, 

The  clangor  of  strife  and  the  coil  of  sin  ; 
But  much  I  misdoubt  if  he  really  stays. 

The  boy  besought  thy  love  to  bless 
The  fancied  woes  of  Valentine  ! 

The  man  unto  his  heart  would  press 
With  rapture,  as  a  thing  divine. 

Sorrow  or  crime  or  nothingness. 
To  give  one  moment's  joy  to  thine ! 

Would  dwell  eternally  with  Shame, 
And  count  its  rankest  savor  sweet ; 


THE   KEYSTONE.  267 

Would  bare  his  heart-strings  unto  flame, 
And  Want  and  Death  would  gladly  meet, 

To  give  thee  joy — or  yield  thee  fame  ! 
Nor  ask  to  kiss  thy  dimpled  feet ! 

Yet,  ah  !  the  lines  of  carking  care 

Are  creeping,  creeping  round  thine  eyes  • 

And  in  the  meshes  of  thy  hair — 

Nay,  start  not,  nor  pretend  surprise — 

Which  was  so  bonnie  brown  and  fair, 
The  glint  of  envious  silver  lies  ! 

Oh!  dead  boy-love,  whose  warmth  could  bring 

To  loving  lips  and  heart  forever 
The  roundelay  of  birds  in  spring, 

Pulsing  with  sinless  passion's  quaver. 
And  o'er  the  worshiped  features  fling 

A  glamour  fading  never  ! 

Oh  !  woe  that  manhood's  strength  but  brings 
Embittered  sweetness  to  Love's  shrine  ! 

God  grant  that  memory  sometimes  sings — 
Though  cumb'ring  cares  our  lives  entwine. 

And  Sorrow  sweeps  the  minor  strings — 
Of  him — thy  boy-love — Valentine  ! 

It  was  signed  "  Paul." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

I  THIS   INDENTURE    WITNESSETH. 

A  /r  Y  poor  darling  had  come  the  night  before, 
-^^ -^  while  I  slept,  and  written  those  hnes,  in- 
tending to  send  me  another  valentine.  And  he 
thought  I  did  not  love  him  so  well  as  I  had  in  the 
old  days.  As  if  that  could  be  compared  to  the 
later  love !  He  thought  because  the  world  and 
care  had  come  into  my  life — perhaps  because  I 
had  reproached  him,  and  had  not  sought  him 
when  he  withdrew  himself  from  me — that  my 
love  was  less.  Oh !  I  could  see  how  I  had  let 
the  great  fond  nature  squander  and  torture  itself, 
unmindful  of  the  treasures  which  that  sensitive, 
too  sensitive  soul  poured  at  my  feet.  I  had  mis- 
understood him.  Knight  as  he  was  in  conflict,  a 
Bayard  in  arms,  he  was  of  too  fine  a  fiber  to  love 
the  harsh  contact  with  the  world.  He  could  do 
or  suffer  with  the  utmost  zeal  and  cheerfulness, 
but  the  rough,  sordid  struggle  with  the  world 
sickened  him.  He  could  give  his  life  for  a  principle 
that  he  cherished  or  for  a  friend  that  he  loved 
as  gladly  as  a  bride-groom  goeth  to  his  nuptials. 


THIS  INDENTURE   WITNESSETH.  269 

He  had  thought  I  blamed  him  for  our  misfor- 
tunes, and  his  sensitive  spirit  had  shrunk  away 
from  me  and  he  had  devoted  his  Hfe  to  rein- 
stating me  in  wealth  and  position.  He  thought 
that  as  I  had  been  reared  in  luxury  I  prized  it 
more  than  I  did  his  love.  I  ran  through  our 
whole  life  as  I  sat  there  by  the  desk,  at  which  he 
had  spent  so  many  hours  and  performed  labors 
of  which  I  was  yet  to  learn,  and  saw  how  I  had 
neglected  and  misappreciated  the  noble  being 
who  counted  himself  but  dross  in  comparison 
with  my  poor,  weak,  selfish  self.  Yet  I  had  not 
meant  to  be  selfish.  I  did  love  him  better  than 
of  old,  only  he  had  kept  his  heart  so  hidden  that 
I  had  only  now  and  then  caught  a  glimpse  of  it. 
We  had  lived  apart,  though  together;  coolly, 
though  both  our  hearts  were  full  of  love.  We 
had  each  repressed  our  impulses  from  a  miscon- 
ception of  the  other's  feelings.  Day  by  day  we 
had  swung  apart,  while  we  both  daily  yearned  for 
a  closer  communion.  We  had  both  been  but  a 
bundle  of  contrarieties,  and  it  was  all  my  fault 
too.  I  knew,  or  ought  to  have  known,  what  an 
innocent,  simple,  blundering  soul  my  giantly 
Greatheart  was ! 

Would  he  ever  have  found  out  my  love  If  I  had 


270  MAMELON. 

not  done  the  wooing?  Did  he  not  live  year  after 
year  with  the  incense  of  my  adoration  going  up 
about  his  nostrils,  and  never  dream  that  he  was 
the  deity  to  whom  it  was  offered  ?  Did  I  not 
remember  what  a  great  unconscious,  self-forgetful, 
self-depreciating  oaf  he  was  years  before?  Did  I 
not  know  that  the  laurels  he  had  won  in  the  long 
war-struggle  were  all  forgotten,  that  he  counted 
himself  less  a  hero  than  thousands  of  those  who 
had  followed  his  lead  and  drawn  inspiration  from 
his  devotion  ?  But  now — well,  never  mind ;  if  my 
Paul  but  lived  he  should  know  how  much  more  I 
loved  him  than  wealth,  luxury,  children,  friends, 
or  all  of  life  besides. 

I  wiped  my  eyes  as  I  made  these  good  reso- 
lutions, which  came  so  late,  and  read  again 
through  another  mist  of  tears  my  husband's  val- 
entine. 

As  I  laid  it  down  another  envelope  upon  the 
desk  attracted  my  attention.  It  was  a  large  white 
ofificial-looking  one,  endorsed  in  many  styles  of 
ornamental  letters,  the  blanks  filled  up  with  ex- 
quisite penmanship  and  underscored  with  red 
lines — a  marvel  of  typographical  and  calligraphi- 
cal  art.  One  glance  at  it  froze  my  bounding 
blood  with  horror!    It  was  all  plain  to  me  then — 


THIS  INDENTURE   WITNESSETH.  27 1 

the  great  loving,  self-forgetful  heart — the  agony, 
the  pistol !     O  God  ! 

The  words,  the  lines — the  very  stains  and  folds 
of  that  envelope — were  seared  into  my  brain  in 
that  terrible  instant,  never  to  be  effaced.  I  can 
see  it  now,  every  terrible  letter  and  figure  which 
it  bore  is  clear  to  my  memory. 

It  was  endorsed: 

Policy  on  the  life  of 

Paul  Dewar, 

Aiuoufit  $40,000. 

My  Paul,  my  husband,  my  hero,  had  intended 
to  destroy  his  life  that  I  might  be  enriched  by 
his  death! 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

MOUND-BUILDERS    TO    THE    RESCUE  ! 

'nr^HE  Professor  came  in  while  I  sat  there 
-*■  petrified  with  horror.  A  few  words  ex- 
plained to  him,  as  far  as  was  necessary,  the  facts 
I  had  learned. 

"  Alas,"  he  said  when  I  had  concluded,  "  it  is  as 
I  feared.  I  hoped  I  might  keep  a  knowledge  of 
it  from  you  and  so  put  the  pistol  in  my  pocket, 
intending  if  I  had  found  that  he  had  really  in- 
flicted a  wound  upon  himself  to  have  invented 
some  means  to  keep  it  from  your  sight,  for  a  time 
at  least.  He  had  probably  taken  the  pistol  in  his 
hand  for  the  purpose  of  self-destruction  when  his 
nervous  excitement  culminated  in  something  re- 
sembling apoplexy  and  in  his  fall  it  was  dis- 
charged, fortunately  without  harm  to  himself." 

"You  are  not  deceiving  me  then?"  I  said. 
"  He  is  really  not  wounded  at  all  ?" 

"  He  has  no  wounds  except  those  which  were 
made  with  your  consent  and  assistance,"  he  an- 
swered smilingly. 


MOUND-BUILDERS    TO    THE  RESCUE!      273 

"And  for  which  I  must  thank — " 

"  God,"  he  interjected  solemnly ;  and  I  bowed 
a  tearful  assent,  though  I  doubt  not  my  eyes 
spoke  my  gratitude  to  the  human  agent.  Then 
he  began  to  search  among  the  cases  and  shelves. 

"  If  we  can  find,"  he  said,  "  the  course  of  the 
bullet,  we  may  form  some  idea  of  the  position  he 
was  in  when  the  shot  was  fired.  He  may  simply 
have  had  it  in  his  hand  when  he  fell,  without  the 
intention  we  have  attributed,  and  it  may  have 
exploded  on  striking  the  floor  or  some  other 
obstacle." 

I  watched  him  absently  as  he  pried  about 
among  the  many  relics  contained  in  the  cab- 
inet of  primeval  means  of  destruction,  for  the 
traces  of  the  modern  life-destroyer,  that  terrible 
Derringer  ball,  which  had  found  a  resting-place 
somewhere  among  them. 

"Ah!  here  is  a  trace  of  it,"  he  said  as  he 
showed  me  where  it  had  crushed  through  the 
skull  of  a  Mound-Builder,  "  I  can  almost  fancy 
the  surprise  of  the  old  Pre-Adamite,"  he  added 
jocosely. 

Then  he  went  on  following  the  clue  thus  ob- 
tained, and  I  fell  into  a  dull,  sad  reverie.  I  could 
not  shut   out  from   my  mind  that  our  situation 


2/4  MAMELON. 

was  indeed  deplorable.  That  which  had  driven 
Paul  to  desperation  I  could  not  ignore. 

I  was  startled  by  the  voice  of  the  Professor  at 
my  elbow. 

*'  This  is  a  very  v^aluable  collection  which  your 
husband  has  made,  Mrs.  Dewar." 

I  looked  up  with  a  sudden  hope  and  asked 
eagerly : 

*'  Do  you  think  so!" 

**  Undoubtedly.  It  needs  some  skill  in  prepa- 
ration and  arrangement,  but  the  elements  of  a 
valuable  collection  are  here.  Do  you  think  he 
could  be  persuaded  to  part  with  it  ?" 

Persuaded  to  part  with  it !  The  idea  that  one 
who  would  offer  his  life  for  the  comfort  of  those 
he  loved  should  need  persuasion  to  induce  him  to 
sell  a  lot  of  old  musty  relics !  I  knew  the  speci- 
mens had  many  of  them  cost  Paul  a  great  deal  of 
time  and  money.  He  had  frequently  told  me 
that  some  of  them  were  unique,  that  there  were 
none  others  like  them  in  the  world  ;  but  I  had 
never  thought  that  they  might  prove  an  assistance 
to  us  in  our  present  strait.  I  am  sure  my  voice 
must  have  trembled  as  I  asked,  not  daring  to 
look  up  : 

''  What  do  you   think  they  would  be  worth  ?" 


MOUND-BUILDERS   TO    THE  RESCUE  I     2/5 

I  waited  with  a  beating  heart  for  a  reply,  hardly- 
daring  to  hope  that  he  would  name  any  consider- 
able sum. 

"■  Well,"  he  said  deliberately,  **  from  the  exam- 
ination I  have  given  it,  I  think  I  should  be  willing 
to  give  ten  thousand  dollars." 

''  Ten  thousand  dollars !"  I  exclaimed.  Had 
the  days  of  miracles  returned  ?  Was  I  dreaming? 
I  could  scarcely  believe  myself  awake,  but  the 
voice  of  the  Professor  recalled  me. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  he  said,  ''  that  it  cost  your 
husband  much  more  ;  a  man  who  makes  a  collec- 
tion just  con  amore,  without  a  careful  study  of  his 
expenditure,  never  knows  its  cost,  and  is  almost 
certain  to  subject  himself  to  great  losses." 

I  looked  up  at  him  and  saw  that  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  me  with  a  peculiar  earnest  look.  As 
mine  fell  again  they  rested  for  a  moment  on  the 
Sheriff's  notice  on  the  desk.  All  at  once  it  flashed 
into  my  mind  that  this  rich  man  was  making  our 
old  cabinet,  which  Paul  and  I  had  been  so  happy 
in  collecting,  an  excuse  for  offering  us  charity.  I 
thought  he  had  become  so  interested  in  my  hus- 
band that  he  would  give  him  all  these  thousands, 
and  take  the  cabinet  as  a  pretended  considera- 
tion.    All  my  foolish   Southern  pride  rose  in  an 


2/6  MA  MELON. 

instant.  I  stood  up  and  looked  at  him,  I  doubt 
not,  angrily,  though  I  was  grieved — for  I  loved 
this  man  and  appreciated  his  motive.  Paul  loved 
him  too,  and  he  had  just  saved  Paul's  life  for  me. 
So  I  think  tears  got  the  better  of  pride  when  I 
spoke. 

''  You  should  not  take  advantage  of  our  misfor- 
tune to  humiliate  us." 

''  Indeed,"  he  said,  with  troubled  earnestness, 
"indeed  I  had  no  thought  of  doing  so." 

"  Did  you  not  know  our  circumstances?  Have 
you  not  read  that?"  I  said,  excitedly  thrusting  the 
notice  towards  him. 

He  glanced  over  it  and  said  : 

"  I  had  not  seen  this.  I  did  know  your  husband 
was  in  straitened  circumstances,  and — and — " 

"  And  you  would  never  have  made  this  offer  but 
for  that  fact !"  I  said  tremblingly,  hoping  that  he 
would  deny  it. 

"  I  confess  I  should  not,"  he  answered  frankly. 

''  Enough,  Professor,"  I  said,  as  proudly  as  I 
could.  The  man  had  been  so  kind  and  true  he 
had  almost  earned  the  right  to  put  his  hand  in 
his  purse  to  help  our  need,  and  I  would  not  have 
pained  him  for  the  world.  I  believe  that  had  I 
consulted  my  own  heart  I  should  have  accepted 


MOUND-BUILDERS   TO    THE  RESCUE!     2/7 

his  bounty ;  but  I  remembered  the  proud  sensitive 
one  which  beat  unconscious  of  my  temptation  in 
the  room  beyond,  and  thought  that  it  would  break 
indeed  should  I  so  condescend,  for  I  knew  my 
pride  was  but  as  a  drop  in  the  ocean  when  com- 
pared to  his.  ^'  Enough,  Professor  Ware ;  we 
have  not  yet  fallen  so  low  that  we  can  accept 
charity,  even  from  you.  We  must  face  our  mis- 
fortune and  do  our  best."  I  attempted  to  pass 
him  and  leave  the  room. 

"  Stop,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  my  arm, 
"  There  is  surely  some  mistake.  Charity?  What 
do  you  mean?" 

**  What  do  I  mean  ?"  I  asked.  ''  Why,  Professor, 
you  have  just  acknowledged  that  you  would  not 
have  made  this  offer  but  for  our  being  in  reduced 
circumstances ;  in  other  words,  that  you  made  the 
cabinet  an  excuse  for  offering  us  pecuniary  aid." 

"Ah,  yes;  I  see,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  re- 
lieved chuckle  and  a  queer  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 
"  Please  be  seated,  Mrs.  Dewar,  and  let  us  talk 
farther." 

"  I  hope.  Professor  Ware — "  I  began. 

"  I  think  I  have  the  right  to  ask  that  much,"  he 
said  with  dignity,  almost  sternness. 

I  obeyed  at  once.    Had  he  not  saved  my  Paul  ? 


2/8  MA  MELON. 

Besides,  a  woman  likes  to  obey  a  man  who 
^'  speaks  as  one  having  authority."  I  imagine  that 
was  the  reason  so  many  women  believed  on  the 
Saviour  at  the  first.  He  sat  down  too,  and  after 
a  moment  said  in  a  cold,  even  tone,  without  look- 
ing at  me : 

''  Mrs.  Dewar,  the  reason  I  said  that  I  would 
not  have  made  such  an  offer  for  the  cabinet  if  I 
had  not  been  aware  of  your  unfortunate  circum- 
stances was  because  I  understood  something  of 
that  same  foolish  pride  which  you  have  just  ex- 
hibited." 

*'  Professor  Ware !"  I  said  excitedly. 

**  Do  not  force  me  to  claim  what  is  my  due," 
he  said  significantly.  I  twisted  my  fingers  and 
waited.  I  was  certainly  in  bonds  to  him,  and 
would  not  disown  them. 

'*  I  am  going  to  tell  you  now  what  I  should 
have  told  your  husband  but  for  the  sad  event  of 
last  night.  This  cabinet  is  considered  the  best 
collection  of  Indian  curiosities  and  archaeological 
specimens  referring  to  the  past  of  our  own  land 
that  there  is  in  the  world.  Your  husband  was  an 
indefatigable  collector,  and  a  man  of  wonderful 
fertility  and  research  in  his  own  field,  but  he  lacks 
the  mechanical  skill  and  knowledge  requisite  to 


MOUXD.BUILDERS    TO    THE   RESCUE!      279 

make  such  a  collection  command  its  full  value. 
When  this  is  done  the  museum  of  antiquities  will 
be  worth  from  $15,000  to  §20,000.  In  their  pres- 
ent condition  the  geological  specimens  are  of  lit- 
tle value — few  of  them  are  named,  and  not  all 
that  are,  are  correctly  done.  Many  of  them  are, 
however,  splendid  specimens — and  all  of  them,  I 
believe,  are  labeled  with  the  place  and  date  of 
finding.     The  whole  needs  to  be  catalogued." 

*'  There  is  a  catalogue,"  I  said,  ^'  referring  to 
every  specimen  by  number.  I  made  it  myself," 
v^ith  some  pride. 

''  Indeed  !"  with  a  smile. 

"  I  mean  under  Paul's  direction,"  I  said. 

"  Of  course,"  he  resumed;  ''then  that  would 
add  somewhat  to  its  value.  The  geological  speci- 
mens I  can  put  into  an  incomplete  collection  I 
am  under  engagement  to  furnish,  and  make  valu- 
able in  that  manner.  Now,  Mrs.  Dewar,  I  knew 
of  your  husband's  circumstances  and  came  on  here 
expressly  to  buy  this  collection.  I  should  not 
have  offered  to  buy  it  if  he  had  not  been  in  those 
circumstances,  because  I  should  have  expected  to 
find  him  too  proud  to  sell.  Instead  of  being 
charity,  it  is  with  me  a  pure  matter  of  business." 

"Oh!     Professor,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  cried, 


28o  MA  MELON. 

seizing  his  hand  and  laughing  and  crying  at  once. 
I  am  not  sure  but  I  kissed  it,  for  my  mind  was  in 
a  perfect  hubbub — indeed  I  might  have  done  so,  if 
it  had  not  been. 

"  Do  not  misunderstand  me,  Mrs.  Dewar,"  he 
said,  with  that  provoking  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 
**  While  the  amount  to  be  paid  is  merely  a  matter 
of  business  with  me,  yet  I  must  confess  that  since 
I  have  become  acquainted  with  your  husband  I 
have  come  to  regard  him  so  highly  that  I  have 
been  very  anxious  that  he  should  accept  my  prop- 
osition and  relieve  himself  from  embarrassment 
thereby.  You  see  I  am  bound  to  make  it  a  mat- 
ter of  charity  as  well  as  business." 

''  Oh !  spare  me !"  I  cried,  still  holding  his 
hand  and  weeping  for  joy.  "  I  am  sure  I  can 
never  thank  you  enough  for  not  being  angry  at 
my  folly." 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

"where    is    the    way    where    light    COMETH?" 

ITT"  ELL,  the  end  of  it  all  was  that  I  sold  the 
•  ^  Professor  the  cabinet  at  his  own  price  ;  he 
saying  that  he  knew  Paul  would  be  glad  to  ratify 
anything  that  I  did,  and  giving  me  his  check  at 
once  for  the  amount,  though  he  refused  to  remove 
any  portion  of  it  until  Paul  had  recovered  suffi- 
ciently to  be  told  of  it  lest  it  should  annoy  him 
that  we  had  disturbed  it  during  his  illness. 

A  few  days  afterwards  I  asked  the  Professor 
how  he  came  to  know  about  my  husband's 
pecuniary  embarrassment. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  ''  I  do  not  know  that  I  ought  to 
tell  you,  but  as  I  think  it  was  a  good  act  and 
kindly  meant,  I  believe  I  will  risk  it.  The  fact  is, 
a  gentleman  who  had  seen  this  cabinet  but  who 
had  no  accurate  idea  of  its  value  came  and  spoke 
to  me  about  it  last  fall.  Of  course  as  soon  as  he 
mentioned  it  I  knew  all  about  it,  as  much  as  one 
could  know  about  a  collection  he  has  never  seen 
and  of  which  no  catalogue  is  published.      You 


282  MA  MELON. 

know  I  have  made  the  collection  of  museums  a 
business.  Well,  he  said  that  your  husband  had 
gone  into  some  manufacturing  business  which  he 
was  afraid  would  prove  a  loss  to  him,  and  he 
thought  he  might  save  himself  from  losing  his 
plantation,  which  was  mortgaged  for  part  of  the 
capital  invested,  by  •making  sale  of  the  collection. 
He  wanted  me  to  get  acquainted  with  your 
husband,  and  as  delicately  and  carefully  as  I  could 
hint  to  him  this  method  of  extricating  himself 
from  his  difficulties,  if  the  collection  was  of  suffi- 
cient value.  When  your  husband  came  North, 
therefore,  this  gentleman  wrote  me  where  he  was 
staying  and  gave  me  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
parties  who  made  us  acquainted,  since  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  known  in  the  matter." 

*'  How  did  it  come  to  take  you  so  long  to  make 
up  your  mind?"  I  asked. 

"  Well,  of  course  I  wanted  to  look  the  collection 
over.  It  required  some  time  to  do  this,  naturally ; 
and  when  I  had  done  so  and  made  up  my  mind 
and  began  to  hint  at  the  value  of  the  collection  I 
found  it  quite  impossible  to  get  your  husband  to 
take  my  intimations  as  they  were  intended." 

I  could  but  laugh  at  this  and  tell  him  of  our 
courtship. 


''WHERE  IS    THE   WAY,"  ETC.  283 

*'Yes,"  said  the  Professor,  as  I  concluded,  "I 
found  his  to  be  one  of  those  great  simple  natures 
which  are  so  true  and  brave  that  a  hint  is  lost  on 
them.  They  are  so  direct  themselves  that  they 
cannot  understand  indirectness  in  others.  I  had 
come  to  think  so  highly  of  him  that,  aside  from 
the  purchase  I  desired  to  make  and  the  solicita- 
tions of  the  gentleman  who  had  planned  the 
whole  thing,  I  was  very  anxious  not  to  fail  in  the 
undertaking.  Yet  I  was  afraid  to  come  straight 
out,  as  I  ought  not  to  have  been  perhaps,  and 
make  the  proposition  to  him  directly,  but  put  it 
off  from  day  to  day  with  the  idea  that  I  might 
ingratiate  myself  more  completely  into  his  con- 
fidence and  have  a  better  prospect  of  ultimate 
success.  I  had  decided  to  broach  the  matter  to 
him  that  very  night,  when  I  was  to  have  a  con- 
versation with  him  in  regard  to  the  publication 
of  his  book." 

"  His  book !"  I  cried,  in  amazement. 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  Professor,  "  did  you  not 

know   he    had   a    volume    nearly   ready    for   the 

?»> 

"  No,  indeed,"  I  answered. 

"  He  must  be  a  strange  man,  if  he  can  keep 
such  secrets  from  you,"  he  replied  smilingly  ;  "  but 


284  MA  MELON. 

as  we  have  taken  some  liberties  with  his  peculiar 
domain  since  his  illness,  and  as  I  happen  to  know 
where  he  keeps  the  manuscript,  I  will  treat  you  to 
a  farther  surprise  if  you  desire." 

He  picked  up  my  husband's  keys  which  lay 
upon  the  desk  as  he  spoke,  and,  as  I  did  not  ob- 
ject, opened  one  of  the  drawers  and  showed  me  a 
great  pile  of  manuscript,  written  on  one  side  in 
my  husband's  honest,  unpretentious  hand,  yet 
plain  as  print.  There  were  many  hundred  of 
these  pages. 

"  It  is  a  great  work,"  said  the  Professor,  "  and 
executed  with  wonderful  care  and  faithfulness.  It 
will  put  his  name  in  the  very  front  rank  of  scien- 
tific writers  whenever  it  is  published.  Its  finan- 
cial success  cannot  be  foretold.  The  cost  of  pub- 
lication will  be  great  and  his  direct  profits  may 
be  inconsiderable.  It  will  open  the  doors  of  the 
future  to  him,  however,  and  assure  the  success  of 
what  he  may  do  hereafter.  I  only  wonder  when 
he  found  time  to  do  it." 

Alas!  I  did  not.  The  secret  of  his  isolation 
and  preoccupation  was  disclosed  to  me  then.  I 
knew  why  he  had  left  me  night  after  night  to  shut 
himself  into  the  cabinet.  I  knew  why  his  lamp 
had  shone  far  past  the  noon  of  night   and  his 


''WHERE  IS   THE   WAY:'  ETC.  285 

hushed  tread  came  to  my  ears  so  often  in  the 
early  dawn.  Oh !  how  humbled  and  unworthy  I 
felt  that  I  had  let  him  labor  thus  alone  and  in  si- 
lence, without  aid  or  sympathy ;  that  a  stranger's 
eye  had  first  seen  his  work  and  a  stranger's  ear 
first  listened  to  his  aspirations.  Why  had  not  my 
love  so  clung  about  his  heart  that  it  had  known 
the  birth  of  his  hope  and  the  dawning  of  his  am- 
bition? Ah,  me!  Had  I  been  his  wife,  or  only 
a  stranger  within  his  gates  ? 

I  had  one  more  question  to  ask  the  Professor, 
as  to  who  was  this  friend  of  Paul's  who  devised 
this  little  scheme  for  our  benefit. 

"Ah!  that  is  just  what  I  was  desired  not  to 
tell,"  he  said, ''  and  I  am  not  sure  I  did  not  prom- 
ise compliance  with  this  request.  I  think  you 
ought  to  know,  however,  for  the  very  reason  he 
gave  for  withholding  it  from  you,  if  for  no  other." 

"What  was  that?"  I  asked. 

"  He  seemed  to  think  your  husband  might  at- 
tribute your  misfortune  to  his  influence." 

"  I  do  not  know  who  should  ever  think  that,"  I 
said  in  surprise,  "  unless  it  were  Mr.  Dickson." 

"And  that  is  precisely  who  it  was,"  said  the 
Professor.  "  He  said  that  your  husband  would 
never  have  gone  into   the  business   but    for   his 


286  MAMELON. 

representations,  and  he  feared  you  might  attribute 
your  loss  to  him." 

''  But  he  loses  as  well  as  we/'  I  said,  In  some- 
thing of  surprise. 

*'  Yes,  but  he  says  that  is  different.  He  did  not 
embark  in  the  business  by  another's  persuasion." 

''And  he  could  spare  thought  from  his  own 
losses  to  think  of  remedying  ours?"  I  said 
thoughtfully. 

The  Professor  only  replied, 

"  He  has  too  much  energy  not  to  repair  his  own 
also." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


THE   PLACE    OF    SAPPHIRES, 


TJAUL  recovered  slowly.  The  doctor  gave  his 
-■-  illness  a  learned  name,  which  he  explained 
to  mean  a  nervous  prostration  resulting  from  care 
or  overwork  and  culminating  in  congestion.  Ah 
me !  1  well  knew  that  both  care  and  overwork  had 
conspired  to  bring  my  C^sar  low.  He  lay  in  a 
strange  torpor  for  many  days.  He  was  not  de- 
lirious, but  just  oblivious  to  all  that  was  about 
him.  This  gradually  wore  off,  and  he  came,  little 
by  little,  to  notice  things  again.  The  doctor  said 
it  was  important  that  he  should  be  kept  from  any 
excitement  or  anxiety  as  long  as  possible.  So  I 
just  hovered  about  his  bed  all  the  time  when  he 
was  awake,  making  myself  as  bright  and  cheery 
as  possible  so  that  he  could  not  have  gloomy 
thoughts.  What  with  the  knowledge  of  our  mar- 
velous deliverance  and  of  my  husband's  silent  de- 
votion and  hope  for  his  future,  this  was  no  hard 
task  for  me  to  perform.  For  a  few  days  I  was 
successful.     He  would  follow  my  every  motion, 


288  MAMELON, 

obey  each  word  and  look,  and  seemed  to  think  it 
quite  sufficient  for  him  to  see  me  happy.  Then 
he  began  to  grow  restless  and  ask  questions  as  to 
what  had  occurred,  and  I  could  see  he  was  dwell- 
ing upon  our  old  trouble  again.  So  I  told  him 
as  carefully  as  I  could  that  the  mortgage  was  all 
paid  off  and  the  future  bright  to  us  once  more. 
Then  I  would  let  him  ask  no  more  questions  that 
day,  but  kept  on  telling  him  how  happy  I  was  and 
how  I  loved  him  better  than  ever  before,  until  he 
went  off  to  sleep  from  very  weariness  at  my  sense- 
less chatter,  I  think,  though  there  was  a  happy 
light  on  his  slumbering  face  which  I  had  not  seen 
there  in  a  long  time  before.  Thus,  day  by  day, 
we  told  him  a  little,  until  he  knew  all  that  had 
happened  during  his  illness. 

Then  he  told  us  how  he  had  come  in  on  that 
terrible  night,  found  the  notice,  and  in  his  despair 
had  been  tempted  to  do  what  he  had  very  often 
thought  of  doing  for  my  sake.  He  said  he  could 
think  of  no  other  way  to  relieve  me  from  the 
pinchings  of  poverty  which  he  could  not  bear  that 
I  should  endure.  He  did  not  desire  to  do  it  to 
escape  the  pains,  privations,  or  burdens  of  life 
himself ;  he  had  no  fear  of  them,  he  said  ;  but 
simply  to  endow  me  with  comfort  once  more.  He 


THE  PLACE   OF   SAPPHIRES.  289 

had   long  meditated   this  course,  and   had  deter- 
mined to  adopt   it  whenever  it  became  necessary 
to  prevent  the  sacrifice  of  the  dear  old  plantation, 
the  Grove.       He  had  taken  the  pistol  from  the 
drawer  and  was  standing   at  the  desk  when,  he 
said,  he  seemed  to  hear  my  voice,  and  looking  over 
his  shoulder   towards  the   door  of   my  room  he 
thought  he  saw  me  coming  in  my  night  dress  to 
prevent    his    carrying    out    his    intention.       He 
thought  he  must  act  quickly  or  I  would  interrupt 
him.     Then  came  the  explosion  and  unconscious- 
ness.    When  he  partially  recovered  the  power  of 
thought   it  was   only  in  a  dreamy,  half-conscious 
way.     He  thought  he  was  dead— that  he  had  died 
from  the  wound  he  had  given  himself— that  the 
pain  he  felt  in  his  head  was  caused  by  that,  and 
his  only  anxiety  was  about  the  insurance  money. 
He  had  been  fearful  all  the  time  while  he  was  con- 
templating the  act  that  the  company  might  refuse 
to  pay  it  on  account  of  his  having  died  by  his  own 
hand.     Then  he  seemed  to  hear  me  say  I  had  got 
the  money,  and  from  that  instant  his  mind  was'at 
rest.     He  slept  undisturbed  after  that,  with  only 
a  dim  idea  that  he  was  dead,  and  that  what  he 
heard  and  sometimes  saw  about  him  was  only  a 
dream  of  a  past  life. 


290  MA  MELON. 

Of  course,  he  ratified  the  sale  of  the  cabinet 
and  was  wheeled  into  the  room  every  day,  as 
soon  as  he  became  strong  enough,  to  watch  the 
Professor  as  he  packed  it  for  transportation.  We 
were  afraid  he  would  regret  its  removal ;  but  he 
declared  he  had  never  enjoyed  its  collection  as 
he  did  the  removal  of  it.  He  was  anxious  that 
others  should  see  and  enjoy  its  advantages  as 
well  as  himself. 

When  the  packing  was  almost  completed  and 
the  old  shelves  nearly  bare  or  removed,  and  the 
room  filled  with  crowded  cases  instead,  we  were 
all  in  the  room — the  Professor,  Paul  and  I.  The 
Professor  was  picking  over  a  heap  of  unassorted 
specimens  in  the  corner  farthest  from  where  the 
desk  had  stood.  All  at  once  he  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation of  surprise  and  took  something  to  the 
window  for  closer  examination. 

After  a  moment  he  gave  a  long  low  whistle,  as 
he  often  did  when  he  found  something  unusually 
fine  or  unexpected.  Paul  smiled.  He  was  very 
much  pleased  and  flattered  to  have  so  learned  a 
man  as  the  Professor  find  so  many  fine  specimens 
in  his  collection. 

"What  have  you  found?"  he  asked. 

"What  have  I  found?"  echoed  the  Professor, 


THE   PLACE  OF  SAPPHIRES.  29 1 

half  laughing.  "The  queerest  thing  in  the  whole 
collection.     What  do  you  think  1  have  found .?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  could  not  guess,"  said  my  hus- 
band. 

*'  I  should  think  not !"  said  the  Professor.  "  It 
is  a  specimen  you  did  not  dream  I  would  find. 
In  fact,  you  did  not  know  it  was  here." 

"  Oh  !  that  cannot  be.  Paul  knows  everything 
there  is  here,"  I  said  eagerly. 

"  Come  and  see  if  you  think  he  knew  this,"  he 
replied. 

I  ran  over  to  the  window  where  he  stood  with 
my  work  in  my  hand.  He  held  out  towards  me 
a  dull  rough  stone  covered  with  dust  and  having 
a  queer  metallic-looking  excrescence  toward  one 
end. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  I  exclaimed  impatiently. 

"What  is  it?  Why  it  is  that  ball  which  your 
precious  husband  yonder  tried  to  put  through  his 
head  1" 

"  Let  me  see  it,"  said  Paul  in  a  low  tremulous 
tone. 

We  went  across  the  room  and  stood  silent  and 
solemn  about  Paul's  chair  while  he  examined  it. 
He  looked  at  it  a  long  time  and  then  handed  it 
back  to  the  Professor,  while  he  took  my  hand  and 


292  MA  MELON. 

pressed  it  to  his  lips.  I  think  there  were  tears 
in  all  our  eyes,  but  I  was  afraid  the  excite- 
ment would  be  too  much  for  Paul,  so  I  said 
quickly, 

''  That  is  mi7tey   Professor.     You  did   not   buy 
that." 

He  caught  my  motive  at  once  and  said  with  jy 
queer  grimace : 

''  Sold  and  delivered,  madame." 

Paul  laughed  ;  and  I,  determined  to  divert  his 
thoughts  still  more,  sprang  forward  to  where  the 
Professor  sat  and  said,  ''  But  I  will  have  it,"  and 
tried  to  take  it  from  him.  He  held  it  off  with 
one  hand  and  laughed  as  he  caught  me  by  the 
arm  with  the  other  and  held  me  at  a  distance.  I 
remembered  how  roughly  he  had  seized  my  arm 
once  before  and  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
for  a  joke. 

''Let  go,  sir!"  I  cried  angrily.  "You  hurt  my 
arm  I 

He  released  me  in  amazement  and  I  went  and 
stood  beside  Paul  in  pretended  anger. 

''  I  am  sure,  Mrs.  Dewar,"  said  the  Professor  in 
the  most  utter  confusion — 

"Pshaw,  Sue,"  said  Paul,  "you  must  be  mis- 
taken." 


THE  PLACE   OF  SAPPHIRES.  293 

"  It  cannot  be — I  cannot — "  stammered  the 
Professor. 

"Look  there,  sir!"  I  said,  throwing  back  my 
open  sleeve  and  showing  him  the  finger-marks  he 
had  left  there  days  before.  You  should  have  seen 
his  incredulous  surprise. 

"You  do  not  mean  to  say,  Mrs.  Dewar — " 

"  Indeed  I  do  mean  to  say,  Professor  Ware, 
that  you  and  no  one  else  left  those  marks  upon 
my  arm,"  I  interrupted. 

Then  I  went  and  stood  beside  Paul  again.  He 
looked  at  me  in  surprise,  and  took  my  hand  in 
his,  and  said  : 

"Why,  Cousin  Sue!" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  sure,  a  thousand 
times,"  said  the  Professor  earnestly. 

"And  I,"  said  I,  going  over  to  him,  "have 
thanked  you  a  thousand  times  for  doing  it,  and 
now  thank  you  again  ;"  and  as  I  spoke  I  reached 
up  and  kissed  him  while  the  tears  ran  down  my 
face  and  the  laughter  bubbled  hysterically  from 
my  lips.  I  had  never  thanked  the  Professor  be- 
fore and  could  do  it  in  no  other  way  then.  You 
should  have  seen  how  surprised  those  two  men 
were.  Then  I  told  them  how  and  when  it  was 
done,  and  the  scene  closed  with  a  good  deal  of 


294  MA  MELON. 

laughter  and  some  crying.  They  held  each  other's 
hands  a  long  time,  trying  every  little  subterfuge 
they  could  invent  to  choke  back  the  tears  or  hide 
them,  while  their  lips  quivered  and  their  tones 
were  tremulous  and  tender.  I  stood  by  them, 
hardly  knowing  how  many  arms  were  around  me, 
laughing  amid  my  tears,  glad  that  Paul  was  alive, 
grateful  to  the  friend  who  had  saved  him,  and 
thankful  to  the  Power  which  had  sent  that  bullet 
off  to  waste  its  baleful  force  upon  that  stone  in- 
stead of  shattering  the  life  in  which  my  own  was 
bound  up.  I  was  proud  too  of  those  great 
tender-hearted  boys  by  whom  I  stood,  and  glad 
indeed  to  be  the  wife  of  one  and  friend  of  another 
so  true  and  pure  as  they  were — two  kindred  souls 
with  the  likeness  of  brothers  and  the  unlikeness 
of  genius  stamped  upon  them. 

*'  Well,"  said  the  Professor  at  length,  "  I  think 
I  must  let  you  have  this  specimen  for  getting  me 
out  of  that  difficulty  so  pleasantly." 

He  had  held  the  stone  in  his  hand  all  the  time, 
and  now  the  scientist  overcame  the  man,  and  he 
said  meditatively : 

"  I  wonder  what  it  is.  Have  you  any  objection 
to  my  breaking  it  ?" — to  me. 

"Oh  none  at  all,  only  let  me  have  the  bullet  to 


THE  PLACE  OF  SAPPHIRES.  295 

keep  Paul  in  subjection  with  hereafter,"  I  said, 
laughing. 

He  took  a  hammer  and  tried  to  break  it,  but  it 
was  very  stubborn.  He  began  to  peer  at  it  with 
unusual  interest.  At  length  he  laid  it  on  a  large 
block  of  wood  and  struck  it  a  heavy  blow  near 
where  the  ball  was  sticking  to  it.  The  lead  fell 
off  with  a  scale  of  the  stone  attached.  It  had 
broken  where  there  was  a  flaw,  but  of  the  whole 
stone,  which  was  as  large  as  my  hand,  a  piece  not 
larger  than  a  pea  had  been  separated  by  all  his 
efforts. 

It  was  of  a  peculiar  ruddy  hue,  as  if  the  flame 
which  ages  ago  had  liquefied  its  particles  were  yet 
imprisoned  in  its  crystal  depths ;  a  deep,  soft, 
mysterious  glow  as  if  some  sad,  dark  secret  of  its 
fervid  prison-house,  some  tale  of  love  and  blood 
which  happened  in  the  days  of  chaos,  were  pent 
up  in  its  glowing  heart. 

''What!"  said  the  Professor  in  surprise,  when 
he  saw  it.  He  went  to  the  window  and  examined 
it  more  thoroughly.  Then  he  came  back  to  Paul 
and  asked  very  seriously, 

"  Do  you  know  where  this  came  from  ?" 

*'  Let  me  see,"  said  Paul,  taking  it  in  his  hand. 

No  sooner  did  he  feel  its  weight  and  look  at  its 


296  V  MAMELON, 

general  outline  than  his  face  brightened  and  he 
said. 

*'  Oh  yes.  I  remember  it  well.  There  was  a 
piece  of  land  belonging  to  my  father's  estate  up 
in  the  mountains,  which  had  to  be  sold  after  his 
death.  So  I  had  it  run  out  and  advertised;  but 
as  no  one  wanted  it,  thinking  it  only  good  to  hold 
the  world  together  and  money  being  scarce  at 
that  time,  I  had  a  friend  bid  it  in  for  Sue  at  ten 
dollars  for  the  whole  lot.  I  found  this  when  we 
were  surveying  the  land.  I  remember  noticing 
its  peculiar  shape  and  extraordinary  weight  and 
thinking  I  would  study  it  up  when  I  got  home. 
What  do  you  take  it  to  be  ?" 

*'  It  is  a  very  fine  specimen  of  corundum,"  an- 
swered the  Professor. 

"  Corundum  !"  said  Paul  with  curious  interest. 
'*  Do  you  think  so?" 

*'  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  and  remarkably  perfect 
and  fine,  too.  I  think  it  would  polish  diamonds," 
said  the  Professor. 

"  But  I  did  not  know  that  any  of  it  was  to  be 
found  in  this  country,"  said  Paul. 

"  There  have  been  some  isolated  specimens," 
said  the  Professor,  "  and  now  I  think  of  it,  all  or 
nearly  all  of  them  have  been  found  in  this  State. 


THE  PLACE   OF  SAPPHIRES.  297 

There  may  be  more  where  you  found  this  :  if  so, 
it  is  valuable.  You  know,  of  course,  to  what  it 
is  akin.  It  is  but  a  step  from  corundum  to  sap- 
phire and  the  ruby.  If  there  are  large  deposits 
of  it  one  may  look  almost  to  a  certainty  to  find 
more  or  less  of  these  crystals.  I  should  not  be 
surprised,  if  this  very  specimen  were  properly  cut 
and  worked,  to  find  a  perfect  crystal  ruby,  with- 
out a  flaw  in  its  heart."  • 

''  I  could  go  to  the  very  spot  where  I  found  it," 
said  Paul  meditatively. 

"  Now,  let  me  tell  you  what  to  do,"  said  the 
Professor.  ''You know,  you  must  get  away  from 
here  as  soon  as  you  can.  Suppose  you  go  up 
and  see  if  you  can  find  any  more  of  these  pebbles. 
If  you  do,  send  for  mc  and  we  will  see  what  we 
can  make  out  of  it.  There  may  be  a  good  thing 
in  it,  who  knows?" 

The  Professor  went  home  with  the  cabinet 
the  next  day.  The  factory  was  sold  for  the 
debts  of  the  business  soon  afterwards,  but  the 
dear  old  Grove  was  safe,  saved  by  the  ancient 
Mound-Builders,  who  had  slept  for  so  many 
ages  in  our  Mamelon  !  Paul  said  that  the 
grateful  antediluvians,  havinfl^  become  aware 
of    his    loving    labors    in    their    behalf,    had    re- 


298  MA  MELON. 

warded  him  a  thousandfold  more  richly  than  he 
deserved. 

He  would  have  gone  to  work  again  at  once, 
but  the  old  Doctor  was  imperative  in  his  require- 
ments, which  I  seconded  effectually ;  so  that  a 
decree  of  exile  and  idleness  was  promulgated 
against  him  for  a  full  year.  Our  boy,  now  a  great 
lad,  was  at  school,  and  has  remained  there  while  I 
have  led  Paul  a  constant  chase  after  health  and 
idleness  ever  since.  We  went  to  the  mountains 
first,  and  Paul  soon  found  such  specimens  of 
corundum  and  sent  such  accounts  to  Professor 
Ware  that  he  came  down  post  haste  from  New 
York,  and  almost  before  I  knew  it  a  company 
was  organized,  and  Captain  Dickson  with  his 
engines  and  machinery  was  on  the  ground,  grind- 
ing the  faulty  crystals  to  powder  to  be  used  in 
polishing  other  jewels  and  hard  substances — 
glass  and  the  like.  Every  day  the  hopes  of  the 
great  ''  New  York  Corundum  Company"  have 
been  growing  brighter.  Paul  declares  he  would 
not  be  surprised  to  learn  any  day  that  they  were 
taking  out  rubies,  sapphires,  and  I  know  not  what 
other  jewels  there. 

I  found  he  was  getting  too  much  interested, 
however,  and  hurried  him  away,  and  have  given 


THE  PLACE   OF  SAPPHIRES.  299 

him  little  leisure  for  thought  or  occupation  since. 
He  has  taking  to  hunting  and  fishing  instead. 
He  has  gone  with  a  party  to  the  Everglades  now  ; 
but  I  am  expecting  his  return  every  day,  for  he 
declares  that  his  year  of  idleness  began  and  shall 
end  upon  St.  Valentine's  day. 


The  door  upon  the  veranda  opened  at  this 
point.  The  bright-eyed  lady  sprang  up,  and  with 
a  low  cry  of  delight  bounded  into  a  pair  of 
brawny  arms  and  buried  her  face  in  a  brown 
forest  which  half  hid  a  sunburnt  visage,  while  a 
pair  of  love-lighted  blue  eyes  glanced  laughingly 
towards  us  over  her  ringleted  head,  and  a  well- 
worn  sombrero  was  courteously  lifted  in  our 
direction.  We  were  rising  to  steal  away  from 
the  happy  meeting,  when  she  loosened  her  em- 
brace and  taking  his  arm  came  forward  and  while 
the  crimson  love-light  flashed  and  shone  upon 
her  face,  introduced  him  to  the  knot  of  charmed 
girls  as, 

''  My  Paul !" 

They  went  away  in  a  day  or  two,  he  longing 
for  his  unfinished  book,  which  had  lain  for  a  year 


300  MA  MELON. 

untouched,  and  she  yearning  for  her  country 
home  and  absent  boy,  now  that  time  and  idleness 
had  restored  her  lord.  But  I  venture  there  is  not 
one  who  heard  the  tale  that  does  not  count 
"  Cousin  Sue  and  her  Paul "  the  happiest  pair 
whom  St.  Valentine  has  ever  joined,  and  who 
does  not  hope  to  meet  them  again  at  Hickory 
Grove,  now  gratefully  rechristened  "  Mamelon." 


THE   END. 


The  Fate  of 

Madame  la  Tour 

A.    Stox'y    of    Oreat    Salt    JLiake. 


Part  I. — A  novel,  which  does  for  Mormonism  what 
"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  did  for  Slavery,  and  "A  Fool's  Errand" 
for  the  Bondage  of  the  Freedmen  in  the  reconstructed  South — 
swings  back  the  doors  and  lets  in  the  revealing  light  of  day  ! 

"A  vivid  and  startling  -pvcXMr^y  —  Boston  Gazette. 

*'  The  fascination  of  thrilling  fiction." — Cincinnati  Commercial. 

"  We  only  wish  every  cultivated  woman  could  read  it." — Chicago 
Inter-Ocean. 

"  A  very  valuable  book,  bearing  upon  its  every  page  the  impress  of 
trustworthiness  and  sincerity."  —  Clevland Herald. 

■"It  may  be  that  the  facts  here  presented  will  have  some  effect  upon 
the  conscience  of  a  nation  too  long  indifferent." — New  York  Tribune. 

"Gives  fresh  and  breezy  pictures  of  pioneer  life,  and  portrays  the 
ideas,  principles,  and  modes  of  the  Mormons,  showing  the  strange 
and  curious  ramifications  of  that  remarkable  system  of  government, 
and  giving  the  key  to  many  puzzling  questions." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  Not  only  literature  but  statesmanship  of  a  high  order.     .     .    hand- 
led with  remarkable  skill,  delicacy,  and  reserve,  and  marked  through- 
out by  a  temperateness  of  language  and  a  reserve  ot  feeling    .     .     . 
The  storv  itself  fires    the    imagination." — Literary   JVorld CBoston), 

"Thrilling  enough  to  interest  the  most  exacting  lover  of  fiction, 
while  solemn  enough  in  its  facts  and  in  its  warnings  to  engage  the  atten 
tion  of  the  most  serious  statesmen." — TAe  Critic  (N.  Y.) 

Part  II. — An  Appendix  giving  a  concise  History  of  Utah 
from  1870  to  1881  :  completion  of  Pacific  railroads ;  incom- 
ing of  Gentiles ;  opening  of  Mines ;  clash  of  Christianity 
with  Mormonism  ;  first  Gentile  Church ;  Mission  Work ;  Heb- 
rev/s  and  Catholics  ;  Utah  Legislature  ;  Woman  Suffrage  ;  Need 
of  Schools  and  free  Education;  Polygamous  Marriages  in  1880; 
the  70,000  Mormons  in  Arizona,  Colorado,  Idaho,  Wyoming, 
and  Nevada  ;  in  short,  a  compact  volume  of  information  on 
that  which  is  rapidly  rising  to  be  the  question  of  the  day. 

"An  Appendix  of  many  pages  bristles  with  information  to  parallel 
the  narrative's  fiction." — Rochester  Rural  Home. 

"  The  Appendix  to  the  volume  constitutes  a  work  by  itself.     .     . 
We  sincerely  hope  every  one  of  our  readers  will  peruse  it." — Detroit 
Commercial  .Advertiser. 

"  A  most  valuable  part  is  the  Appendix  of  seventy  pages,  filled  with 
historical  statements  confirmatory  of  the  novelist  s  assertions." — 
St.  Paul  Pioneer-Press. 

"  A  trustworthy  history  of  Mormonism.  .  .  Never  have  the  mys- 
teries of  Mormor.sm  been  more  skillfully  unraveled,  never  have  the 
sympathies  of  th_  i-eader  been  more  intensely  aroused." — Providence 
Journal. 

Extra  Englisli  Cloth.     Price,  »1.  OO. 

Unifortn  -with  "y4  FooVs  Errand,'^ 


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QTOWE,   HARRIET  BEECHER. 

Domestic  Tales. 

My  Wife  and    I  ;    or,    Harry  Henderson's    History. 
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Pink  and  White  Tyranny.   A  Society  Novel.  One 

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ive story,  she  shows  the  follies  of  self-seeking  and  self- 
pleasing  in  a  young  and  charming  woman,  who,  by  the 
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Dr.  Stowe's  childhood  memories,  so  this  is  drawn  from  some 
of  the  author's  own  reminiscences,  and  has  all  the  brightness 
of  genuine  portraiture. 


"  It  is  long  since  we  have  had  a  story 
from  Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe  which  we  have 
so  thoroughly  enjoyed.  As  the  Americans 
say,  it  is  'good  all  xowud^y^- -London 
Times. 

"  A  fertile,  ingenious,  and  rarely  gifted 
writer  of  the  purely  American  type,  doing 
for  the  traditions  of  New  England,  and  its 
salient  social  features,  the  same  sort  of  ser- 
vice that  Scott  rendered  to  the  Scotch  and 


the  history  and  scenery  of  his  native  land; 
that  Dickens  performed  for  London  and  its 
lights  and  shadows,  its  chronic  abuses  of 
every  sort  ;  the  same  service  that  Victor 
Hugo  has  done  for  Paris,  in  all  its  social 
strata.  Mrs.  Stowe  still  keeps  the  field 
and  her  harvests  ever  grow.  She  works  a 
vein  of  increasing  luster."—  Titusvillt 
(Pa.)  Heral  '. 


N.B.— Mrs.  Stowe's  Domestic  Tales  (the  above- 
named  four  Novels)  are  also  issued  in  uniform  style,  in  a 
box,  and  sold  in  that  form  only  at  $5  the  set. 


For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  will  be  mailed,  postpaid,  on  receipt 
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STOWE,  HARRIET  ^'t.^QW^V.,— continued. 

Religious  Books. 
Footsteps   of  the  Master:    Studies  in  the  Life  of 

Christ.      Especially    appropriate    to    the    Church    Seasons — 
Christmas,   Lent,   Easter,    etc.     With    Illustrations  and  Illu- 
minated Titles.      l2mo.     Choicely  bound  for  Gift   purposes. 
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her  choice  literary  gifts  and  poetic  tastes,  Congregationalist  (Boston). 

Bible  Heroines:  Narrative  Biographies  of  Prominent 

Hebrew  Women  in  the   Patriarchal,  National   and  Christian 

Eras.     Royal  Octavo,     Elegantly   Illustrated    in    Oil    Colors, 

with  copies  of  Famous  Paintings.     Richly  bound   in    cloth, 

$2.75  ;  gilt  edges,  $3.25. 

'•The  fine  penetration,   quick    insight,  \  the  whole  work  is  one  which  readily  cap 
sympathetic   nature,    and   glowing   narra- 
tive, which  have  marked  Mrs.  Stowe's  pre- 
vious works,  are  found  in  these  pages,  and 


tivates  equally  the  cultivated  and  the  relig- 
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■wealth. 


Ci 


New  Juveniles. 

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ALSO    NEW    AND    ENLARGED    EDITIONS    OF 

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Illustrated.     Small  410.     $1.25. 

In  the  list  of  qualities  belonging  to  i  'Queer  Little  People'  is  a  collection  of 
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of  entertaining  the  young  is  not  the  least  told  in  most  capiivating  style,  and  convey- 
remarkable.  Her  productions  in  this  line  '  ing,  with  marvelous  ingenuity  and  power, 
are  original,  racy,  and  healthful  in  a  high  lessons  which  the  aged  as  well  as  the 
degree.  Her  skill  in  allegory  is,  we  think,  young  might  thankfully  receive." — Amer- 
unrivaled  among  the  writers  of  our  day.    |  ican  Presbyterian. 

Little  Pussy  Willow.      Copiously  Illustrated.      Small 

4to.     .$1.25. 

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many  delightful  touches  of  New  England  |  book.     It  seems  as  if  Mrs.   Stowe's  genius 

was  just  fitted  for  this  work,  so  exquisite- 
ly has  she  created  her  country  maiden  ; 
and  the  illustrations  are  very  beautiful." 
— Christian  Register  (Boston). 


scenery  and  domestic  life.  The- story  has 
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pler tales,  which  are  always  her  best." — 
Springfield  Republican. 


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PUBLISHED    BY    FORDS,    HOWARD,    &    HULBERT, 
27  Park  Place,  New  York. 


THE    GREAT   INDIAN   NOVEL! 


Ploughed  Under: 

THE     STORY     OF     AN     INDIAN     CHIEF. 

TOLD   BY   HIMSELF. 


With  a  Spicy  Introduction  about  Indians, 
By  INSHTA  THEAMBA  {''Bright  Eyes,"  of  the  Poneas\ 


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"  Something  unique  in  literature.  ...  It  will  sustain  much  the  same  rela- 
tion to  pending  questions  of  Indian  Policy  as  '  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  '  sustained  to 
slavery  and  anti-slavery  agitation." — Chicago  Standard. 

"A  story  of  the  early  impressions,  experiences,  and  ideas  of  a  young  Indian 
chief,  embodying  many  of  the  customs,  usages,  and  legends  of  the  red  men,  de- 
scriptions of  hunts,  battles,  and  incidents  of  many  kinds,  all  interesting  and  all 
authentic.  It  presents  their  own  notions  of  things,  largely  in  their  own  words, 
and  in  the  graphic  guise  of  fiction  makes  known  many  significant  facts,  and  depicts 
many  characteristic  fancies  of  theirs  not  familiar  to  the  public." — Providence 
(R.  I.)  Star. 

"  The  story  is  full  of  the  interest  of  life,  love,  and  adventure  among  these 
strange  people,  and  contains  much  food  for  thought  among  our  own  intelligent 
and  'civilized'  citizens.  It  gives  a  graphic  picture  of  the  Indian  as  he  is — good 
and  bad,  like  the  rest  of  the  world — and  portrays  the  beauties  of  our  '  Indian 
policy,'  with  its  effect  on  the  fortunes  and  its  impression  on  the  mind  of  a  genu- 
ine red  man.  Such  a  showing  of  hidden  facts  is  needed,  and  the  public  will  wel- 
come it,  coming  in  such  attractive  form." — New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  The  writer  has  a  keen  sense  of  the  satire  of  situations.  .  .  .  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  '  Ploughed  Under'  will  follow  fast  in  the  footsteps  of  A  Fool's  Er- 
rand '  and  '  Bricks  without  Straw.'  It  is  as  true  of  it  as  of  them,  that  a  mighty 
purpose  to  show  up  wrongs,  backed  by  an  array  of  facts  and  incidents  drawn 
from  actual  life,  has  a  tremendous  force  in  opening  people's  eyes  to  truth,  and 
making  thrm  think  rightly." — The  Critic. 


